I could have stuck
a cigarette against my
veins and watched as
the alcohol set fire,
yet I still took to the
wheel in some half
attempt at making it
home.

The night escapes
my memory, tempting
me with broken visions,
half-hearted explanations,
and though I can never
be sure as to what really
did happen, I know
that I’m thankful for
not watching my mother
identify my body from
a stretcher in the morgue.