Pailin

When I drink I think of you. When I puke or hurl or spew I think of what you’d probably do: call me dumb then bring me water, tell me I look like your father – all pathetic, eyes all red; when I drink, the things you said to me when we were lovers flood into my thoughts as I cough blood and look at myself in the mirror, knowing that you’re now no nearer than you were a week ago and I was fine and took things slow and didn’t mind being alone but drinking brings you back to me – tears and memories of sleep with you snoring softly beneath the covers – happens when I drink. Happens more than you would think is possible but hospitals do not possess the tools to heal the ache you make / I only feel when I am absolutely wasted, thinking of the way you tasted, somewhere between dead and fainted, speech too slurred, saliva tainted with the poison that I drank. I’d thank you but I know you’d make it out to mean that I should take it all inside and then move on and find somewhere where I belong because deep down, you do still care. When I drink, I’d even swear you wanted me to keep telling you how pale even the sweetest view is knowing you are absent. You are magic – even absent – still as deluding as absinthe god all I do is drink so I can think of you.

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~ by perfectionatrix on March 20, 2011.

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