he can't write sober.  the mind of a man who
drinks too much whiskey and touches girls without
blinking. whos body is cold no matter how large the fire in
front of him is. he just can't write sober. i feel like the girls he touches,
rough coarse hands on peach fuzz skin. tongues battling in
and out of holes in my cheeks. angry apathetic grunts and dissatisfied sighs. im afraid this is where my life is headed. i am afraid i am the girls he touches and bitterly touches and fiercely touches and
he can't write sober, but he doesn't always drink. sometimes
his hands shake too much to drink. sometimes he smokes,
sometimes he crushes up pills and snorts them. sometimes
he doesn't bother crushing them up at all, he downs a
stiff drink with three pink or white circles and he sits in a
chair in the living room until he can see his hands move
in front of him, until he can pick up a pencil without wanting
to snap it. he can't write sober, so he doesn't. so he waits
for his mind to come to a tachycardic rhythm and he writes.
and when he does, he writes and writes for days. he can't write
sober but when he's not sober he will write for miles, he will
tell you about why he touches girls like me with soft pink skin
that is fresh, that is easy to bite into, that is full of life and not
stained rough and harsh. he can't write sober, so when
hes not sober he will tell you her name. he will not be able to do anything but tell you her name, her name her name her name-
he gets stuck, when hes not sober. when hes nodding in and out
of consciousness. he gets stuck on her name. he gets stuck on how
she felt under his hands, they weren't rough and calloused when
she touched him. he gets stuck on how she smells, he tries to
speak it onto the page but he can't, not sober anyway. like lavender.
stuck on her name and the lavender, the pretty girls with short
hair that sort of look like her, her name, her name and the
lavender on her neck and her wrists. her pretty wrists. how she
left and she looked like a ballerina in a performance, grabbing her
coat and her hat to cover her ears. that short hair never covered her ears. she looked like a dancer. the lavender, her name and her name and her name like a dancer. holding out her hand for him,
her small pink hand, her fresh hand, and
he can't catch her sober. can't keep up with her movements sober.
can't smell her sober, can't say her name sober. but when hes not
sober, he can write it all down. nod in and out, the lavender, her
name, what was her name again? what did she smell like?
until he passes out in that chair, by that fire, i feel like the girls
he discards and the whiskey he drinks. he can't do any of it sober.
so he doesn't, he doesn't have to.
her name, drink.
lavender, drink.
like a ballerina, drink.
her name, drink. her name, drink. her name, drink.
her hands, drink. her ears, drink.

i was drowning
but then came the pouring rain
and for the first time i could breathe

the glass on the table no longer tempting,
the voices in my head no longer speaking,
and the smoke that suffocated me have left for the night.

sober nights like this are what make me glad i didn't call you in the dark of night,
asking for a place in your heart that was never mine.
sober nights like this are what make me realize i was right,
right not to ask favors you were sure to decline.

they say doing nothing is an impossible thing to do, but sober nights like this are when i do impossible things for you.

shattered glass on the floor
but they were not mine nor were they yours
because we kept ours and so we dont bleed

i know tomorrow the wolves will howl again,
i know tomorrow i will miss the silent,
but while i can say this to myself, i'll ever be grateful for

sober nights like this take up my regrets,
regrets that i could have had if i crept on your blankets in the moonlight.
sober nights like this give ease to things i fret,
because here i get acknowledge the cost of fleeting delights.

the ghouls in my head make it hard for me to see, but sober nights like this let me know what's good for me.

the glass on the table no longer tempting,
the voices in my head no longer speaking,
and the smoke that suffocated me have left for the night.

i know tomorrow the wolves will howl again,
i know tomorrow i will miss the silent,
but while i have control over myself, i want to burn this to my head:

sober nights like this come and go,
and i know tomorrow i'll be drunk in my thoughts.
sober nights like this are hard to let go,
and even harder to remember after the return of the demons i fought.

i'm a slave to the darkness that broods inside, but at least in sober nights like this, for a while, to myself, i can lie.