The morning after
nothing goes my way today
fights so unnecessary; thoughts so pointless
i recall the scenes so scattered

Whistling tones, heavy bass
recreating a life full, of wonder
of the unexpected
of new experiences

Down, down, down, down
it goes further and deeper
into my veins
i long for it

blurry lights, red hues
spread across the room
rendering my vision blurry
slowly it keeps deteriorating
- please stop yelling -

out, out, out, out
it leaves my dreadful system
tracing itself into the dark
flushed away from my chaotic self

Back to proper consciousness
i regain my position
i step forward to reclaim my title
of keeping everyone at bay

Misinterpreted phrases enter their ears
the stars dance in their eyes
drunken thoughts collecting inside their head
misleading scenes play in the corner of their eyes

The morning after
the dreaded things i have to clear up
still they don't understand, they push me forward
to the centre of the stage, waiting for my play of explanation

Why are the mornings without the headaches
hardest to live through?

On my birthday in 2016 I blacked out. Usually, bad things happen when I blackout. This time was different though, I was a very pure version of myself. How pure could it have been really? I mean, there was viscous alcohol running through my veins. I was always told alcohol wasn't pure; I still believe that.

  On such a night, I can remember the blur of pixie lights hanging outside the rooftop bar. Mixed with tequila, the lights created almost a room of light around me. I remember the girl that put a plastic sword (used for stirring drinks) in my hat. I loved the sword, it must've meant something to me. She must have meant something to me that night, but no longer.

  Thats the strange thing about such small moments. People can mean so much one night, and then be gone in the next. She was on her way to Colorado, Montana, or something the next day. I never saw her again. I'm not sad about it, but it does leave me confused. I'm not one to believe in purpose, but I do have some inkling that its a possibility we cross paths in a biological rainstorm. Maybe our biology determines our chance meetings with the fates.

Chances gambled.
Seconds ticked.
Across the room,
Eyeballs flick.
Paths intersect,
Feet move quick.
Hi, I'm guy,
And your name's chick!
You have ****,
And I've a ****!
Let's get together,
And see what fits...
Throw *** at each other,
And see what sticks,
Share gasps together,
And then feel sick.

My dam is full and its about to break, it reached capacity this morning. Slowly for the past 3 months it's been filling up with emotions I never shared, my thoughts I never spoke and my actions in which I'm not sure if I should or shouldn't have done. Scared and helpless on what to do now; What is there to be done? No one to get supplies and help fix it. Do I even want to fix it? Why fix anything when theres no one that will need saving. The man who helped build this dam is working for a new girl now. As the **** breaks ill be standing on top, drinking liquor while painting pictures on my arm in red with a silver pencil.

I am inopportunely shy.

I cannot apologize because I know this will not change. Like so many moments (in-between unusually hot seasons for instance) the sweat of ceaseless back-and-forth wears heavy on my nerves. I suppose this acts as penance.

The process of a ***** analysis, for those unaware, is as follows:
—Drive an unusually long distance
—Enter a dingy storefront as quickly and quietly as possible
—Pay your $20 ****-cup processing fee at a counter that smells nonironically of cups of ****
—1)Wash your hands, then 2) lift your shirt, then 3) drop your pants
—Put your mind on Do Not Disturb as you try to pull focus from the man pretending he is not staring at your *****
—Urinate (following an uncomfortably long drought)

When considering all possible alternatives, this is easy. It is benign in all respects. And yet, for the life of me, I cannot shake these shoulders free of worry. Too easy to indulge the mind and its vice-grip on the body.

We aren't ever really in control, are we?

I believed in you,
In us.

I vowed my undying love to you and, with hope,
Began to imagine a day where I wasn’t lying on the floor,

Alone.

We had the world in our palms and yet you managed to create blacks and blues on my flesh into galaxies that made no sense,
I was attracted to the unknown.

And I did not know you.

Dandelions grew over my blood that flooded a meadow,
Roses blossomed from weeds and out came my will to leave you.

Each petal fell with the grace of a dancer and I was uplifted into a world of light.

With a bottle of trouble in one hand, and you heart in the other.

-Chloe Aldecoa