Day one: thumping music, laughter, you, your warm chest, your arms, heat, dancing. My head in a trashcan. Waking up on the bathroom floor. But, you. Your scent. This night won’t end.
Day two: ***** in a glass, a putrid stench of memories and good times going rancid. Tears. Panic. Shut curtains. A whirlwind in my stomach. Endless. Today is endless.
Day four: more tears. Still empty bottles on the floor. Still the lingering scent of “too much”, of “too far”. Yet, somehow, not enough. Never enough.
Day six: normalcy. You. Your presence. Us, together, our mutual understanding - like two ants fighting a stallion. But we do it together. We create memories like cotton candy and feathers.
Day seven: Saturday, hot dogs, movies, warm air, heat, driving with open windows. No dread. I remember what it’s like to lie on the floor with the thumping music in my ears and feel it hit me. The acidity. The liquid solution to cutting all ties with fear. Worry. Future. But soon, there will be a day eight. And the acidity will have burned a hole in my stomach.
May 2, 2020
May 2, 2020 at 8:58 PM UTC
Day one: thumping music, laughter, you, your warm chest, your arms, heat, dancing. My head in a trashcan. Waking up on the bathroom floor. But, you. Your scent. This night won’t end.
Day two: ***** in a glass, a putrid stench of memories and good times going rancid. Tears. Panic. Shut curtains. A whirlwind in my stomach. Endless. Today is endless.
Day four: more tears. Still empty bottles on the floor. Still the lingering scent of “too much”, of “too far”. Yet, somehow, not enough. Never enough.
Day six: normalcy. You. Your presence. Us, together, our mutual understanding - like two ants fighting a stallion. But we do it together. We create memories like cotton candy and feathers.
Day seven: Saturday, hot dogs, movies, warm air, heat, driving with open windows. No dread. I remember what it’s like to lie on the floor with the thumping music in my ears and feel it hit me. The acidity. The liquid solution to cutting all ties with fear. Worry. Future. But soon, there will be a day eight. And the acidity will have burned a hole in my stomach.
Request permission to use this poem