Intoxicated on the bathroom floor,
the cellar door hanging off hinges, and you don’t care because you can breathe.
born into the city of squalor,
you keep looking for justification
for the seething hatred inside your heart, for the one who
the one who pushed you out
(who has continued to fucking – push – you -
and the one who bled for you.
Good and drunk and
floating on some pill you don’t know the name of,
staring at the underneath of the toilet, that contains the contents of last night’s nothing,
and the nothing the night before that.
Vodka kisses and whiskey hugs,
‘darling, you’re my little perfect girl’
‘darling, you’re my little perfect fuck up’
‘darling you fuck up’
‘you fucked me up’
You fucked her up but inside your laughing,
your favorite part is when she makes it home and sobs into your chest
and confesses that she loves you, really
you just ruined her.
because you can just sit and laugh and agree
you fucked her up like you fucked yourself,
and you wished he’d never fucked her,
because you’d still be stardust suspended in animation
You’d be floating on something that isn’t pills
and booze so strong it makes you retch before it reaches your stomach.
Slender fingers clutching clunky bottles
spending another night inside the practice house
pretending to be something you’re not, pretending to be
functional and human and something
than the fuck up you know you really are –
the one who hurt her so.
The phone is ringing,
or was ringing,
you don’t know anymore and
your breath hitches when you hear -
‘darling, you fucked me up’
and the pen was blue,
the pen you drew the word on your arm,
the 5 letter word which wasn’t enough -
was never enough but it was all you had.
the words in your mouth refused to let you breathe,
you hate this city,
but you’ll probably die here.