i know i drunkenly kissed you on the porch
at 3 in the morning, i let you put your hands on me like
i knew what i was getting myself into.
what i meant to do was ask you about your family
and what the word love means to you, instead of
connecting with people i choose to ****** them
because they can’t hurt me when i refuse to feel
anything but a nameless body pressed to mine.
these things do not make me happy.
alone now, 3 in the morning, craving my whiskey so i can forget that there’s no one to hug me,
the most comfort i’ve felt in too long was at the bottom of the bottle,
and that’s left me with nothing but a migraine.