As I turn down
glass after glass
solo cup after solo cup
frustration and anger
fill their eyes.

As I sit out
games of
flip it
and pong
tension rises.

Judgements impaired,
ideals forcefully pressed,
bottles broken,
vaguely reminiscent of
the past.

Where instead of bottles
it was bones.
Instead of tension,
it was animosity,
maybe even hatred.

Here I stand,
at the crossroad
of yesterday and the future.
I can't take a sip.
I can't be like him.

He who tore flesh from bone,
savagely kept going until
badly bruised, even unconscious.
Fortunately,
the physical pain fades.

If only every other nightmare,
ruined memory,
psychological damage,
would too.
I haven't been as fortunate with that.