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May 19, 2020

A Gut-Wrenching Poem about How I Drowned Myself in You (& Booze).

 

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I bet your toes hurt

from constantly walking on the tips of them.

When you laughed or smiled,

you’d cover your mouth and stick out the tip of your tongue.

I believe I stole that from you.

I was vulnerable.

It felt as if you’d ripped me open.

I wanted you to lay me bare,

heart and soul,

but now I know it’s not the same thing.

I was young,

I was lost, and

you were the person I kept coming back to,

day after day,

because I had nowhere else to go.

I remember it felt good,

really good.

It felt like our hands were constantly being held together.

But, you didn’t hold my hand.

I made that up.

I’m fantasizing and romanticizing this

as I do with everything else in my life.

You were different:

honest, sincere, and trustworthy.

Will you save me from me?

I remember you saying no. But in a nice way, right?

I never questioned if you cared,

I questioned if I was good enough for you.

I wasn’t brought flowers,

only made to clean sheets in a lonely little room

where a desperate friend of mine once slept

grinding her body onto yours.

But we still tried,

with varying degrees of success,

to accomplish nothing.

Our nights were filled with moans,

mornings were spent hurrying out of the door,

and hours were spent combing my hair to prepare for you.

I hated falling asleep because

we’d have to start all over again

in the morning.

So much feels irrevocably lost.

You didn’t give me a hug goodbye

that one day at the gas station.

I wish I didn’t discuss the weather.

You didn’t answer the phone when I called.

In jail, I called;

I wanted to sing you happy birthday.

Last time I touched you,

I blacked out.

Surprise.

You were mad, exhausted, resolved, and done.

You told me to leave.

I cried and screamed in the rain, in my slippers.

If only I didn’t…

Some words have more weight than others.

I remember sitting on my couch.

I was bawling, blubbering, and you said,

“I like someone else in Denver, and it’s not fair to her.”

Coke-snot came out of my nose.

I ran to your car.

I can’t be alone.

You preached,

“You shouldn’t drink.

You’re out of control.

You have too many issues.

I can’t help you.

We should be friends. Close friends,

who f*ck.”

I was the girl at the bar,

in slutty black clothes,

laughing at others while feeling insecure myself.

“I’ll have a tequila soda,” I said.

I drowned my regrets in booze and lines.

God, I was having

so much fun

every time

I forgot to love myself.

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