I attempted to translate our love in every possible language my mind could handle.
How we laid on the carpet, hands intertwined, eyes locked on each other’s souls.

My stomach churned, my heart beat escaped into your palms.
I had drank the night before,
You could tell, because my eyes wanted to portray innocence, but you knew.
Yet, I wanted to drink your love instead,
It was just as bitter.
Just as unhealthy, with the complements of the same regret the next morning.

I suppose those stamps on my neck never helped either.
The way you managed to **** the life out of me was inexplicably wonderful.
But it hurt later.

Or how my lips tasted like you, I never loved the taste,
But I told you I did.
I lied, you knew.

That night, when you went home, questioning me.
I mosied on over to the glow of my stove light,
Allowed my hand to marry the egg white bottle,
They looked like little sugars,
But I got nothing sweet from it.

Down the hatch.

I called you, against my wall dizzy, giggling.

You love me when you’re lost, you told me,
You love me, you want me when you’re not you, you told me, you yelled.

I passed out that night,
You called me to check up,
And I could not recall what happened,
Or why I loved you.

So I walked over to that stove light,
Hoping the bottle would help me remember,
Just so I could taste you once more, and not feel guilty for never loving you sober.