smoke wafting, brain frying
four in the morning, standing in the kitchen to look in the mirror
the bathroom, the basement, the pores on her nose
hot brain, it’s humid in there
poor muscles are sore, poor ribs showing from
too much alcohol
stomach empty, expanding
what to do
unspoken even if she wanted to
no matter how hard she hypothetically, could try
her mind is short-circuiting
there’s a hum in her ear, but she’d dig it out if she had the energy to
she wants to be happy,
            I do, I do!
            but it’s tough being cute when the soles of your feet are bruised!
and the t-shirt brushing her skin reminds her of the gash on her side that she didn’t even know was there!
she had a crazy night, she poisoned herself
            I did this to myself
now what?
            I wish I could tell you it isn’t true
but when she took that first sip, her eyes grew wide
and she liked how much it warmed her stomach, giggled, boys ran their fingers through her hair, they said
            you’re fragile
when she lay down her hips would hollow and words slipped through the seams of their lips like warm, salty water
impossible to swallow
            swallow your words
that first sip was not simple substance consumption but
disease-spread
bad school day, bitter morning, run-down organs, dry tongue
first sip means standing in the bathroom, four in the morning, curious of what you are made of
and how can she answer that when
she can’t feel her face?
bodies are bodies, and it’s when warm water from the shower,
four in the morning,
runs between her thighs,
and it stings and she can’t even
remember why
first sip, air settled in her lungs and when she woke up it’s cigarette embedded in hair follicles
it’s the bitter pain from the shampoo burning her eyes
when she washes it out the next morning
worse than the gash in her side
that first sip isn’t different from the bile she’ll cough up later
and the few moments she spends biting the pillow moaning his name aren’t any different from the few moments she'll spend sobbing it because he’ll never
ever, love her
four in the morning and lines between sips and chugs don’t exist
the ones between kissing and crying also blurred
artificial, illusion, warmth in her stomach absent
four in the morning, cold shower, quivering lip
own heartbeat as questionable and suspicious as what she did last night
brain frying
what is forgiveness?
she can’t forgive