someone told me to get drunk and smash things
because that’s what life does to you and
its only polite to return the favour.

i bled that night. i watched your knife slice my skin,
but i didn’t scream. i didn’t deserve to.
did your blade like the way my vein brushed against it?

i drank. i drank and i drank and i drank.
absinthe makes you hallucinate but they’ve never been heartbroken.
the wallpaper is peeling. the windows are barred.

(i don’t want to know where i left the key)

i tossed my life out and i set it on fire
because someone told me to get drunk
and smash things.

i stopped writing. i kept writing. i stopped.
the saddest word in my vocabulary?
“i don’t want to write because then it’s over.”

i have become a collection of misconceptions and
not understandings with a mumble jumble of hoosits
and whatsits because i can’t end this poem.