Are you finding peace in ice cubes rattling at the bottom of my glass
like whiskey melted gin or vodka slipping lube into joints
like youth and brash actions because there are no consequences
when your parents pay all the bills and when kisses don't work take you
to the doctor?
Moving out is like ripping your skin off your shoulder,
tearing a limb you didn't know was attached to bone, and
the gnawing against curfew, against rules, and family dinners
grew into ligaments that you've been sawing off slow for years.
Then you're face down in a blanket, some grunting man sweating
into your butt, speaking vulgarities to the back of your head
while he pries your cheeks apart and shoves a hairy thumb
where even you dared to toy, and you're crying by his words drown out the
sobs between the pillow and the mattress.
I'm not drinking to be loose and ready,
but to forget and remember the warm kiss from home.
wow. that was fucking vivid, and dark, and wholesome and just real as fuck. how awesome. I love dualities.
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