He talked to me of suicide, of the pain of others
and i slept with him, thinking I was a step closer
to pushing myself through that womb of cowardice
and embracing it. the knife to my bosom
or the vicodin down into a slushie in my throat.
i sat, drunk on vodka,
thinking of the easiest way to tell him
this was the best and the last time
that I would feel the need
to break myself over a man
into a bloody mess.
pulling at sweaty, white cotton
all i wondered at that point was what was underneath
waking up with a headache,
a glassy tardy to class
kind of remembering a black haze of words
strained through music
what he thought?
i don’t think i can
i only think that i woke up with everything,
all my clothes off.