trauma never knocks before it comes in

Drunk on a Monday?

I feel the sneer

the inevitable curl of the lip and the staccato laugh

that burns like the vodka in my sprite bottle.

Exchanged glances, rolled eyes,

and I laugh too,

but it pitches and rolls,

stumbles under the weight of heedless insincerity.

 

drunk on a Monday

and I can't be bothered to explain myself to the silence.

To the scratching of pencils on paper

and the tapping of fingers on keys,

I harmonize my sips to the melody

while a symphony of sympathy fills my ears.

 

drunk on a monday

because tonight I need to call a tap out on this body

and there's two ways out of here

one looks like a bottle and forgetting

the other is a razorblade and its kiss -

I've tottered my way down both avenues before

but I'm getting tired of the scars -

 

drunk?

on a monday?

I lie in a bed next to my best friend

and in the darkness

I open my mouth,

pour out the secrets I can't stomach when I'm sober;

 

but I'm drunk,

and it's Monday,

so he asks "can we talk about this tomorrow"

and we both know

he's asking for us to never talk about this again.

I swallow the truth

and it turns my stomach

worse than any liquor ever has.

I wish that a finger in my throat could expel it just as quickly.

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