The pain was all she could feel. No, not the physical kind. Well, actually, that too. It had been years since she had felt like this, unloved, uncared for, and so, utterly alone. You know, the usual. How was she going to bounce back this time? The apartment felt so lonely, and the sunlight just didn’t float through the thin shades so brightly anymore, the dust slowly gathering to form legions on the hardwood floor. How was she going to get past this?
Why couldn’t she? Is she not doing everything she possibly to provide for her family? sure theyre small and maybe cannot even qualify for a “real” family, but why does it matter? thats what they were to her. they were everything she had.
Some days I know I’ll never recover. Being sober is a clean feeling inside me, but I know clean doesn’t last. The white flat surface of sobriety gets flecked, stained, marked by every day bullshit and the marks don’t come out. Drinking is the detergent.
They told me the timbre of your voice would rattle around my ears if the stress and the pitch matched some unknown and unique frequency. Here’s the scene: no low ecstatic buzz, no pumping blood, no passion. The kiss between two old friends becomes too comfortable, less charged. I don’t want to feel complacent in place of what is wild, alive, and driven. I want to feel anticipation at the edges of my lips because the voice in my ear stirs more than the air around us. Reflect it, absorb it, reorient myself around it.
The pain was all she could feel. No, not the physical kind. Well, actually, that too. It had been years since she had felt like this, unloved, uncared for, and so, utterly alone. You know, the usual. How was she going to bounce back this time? The apartment felt so lonely, and the sunlight just didn’t float through the thin shades so brightly anymore, the dust slowly gathering to form legions on the hardwood floor. How was she going to get past this?
Why couldn’t she? Is she not doing everything she possibly to provide for her family? sure theyre small and maybe cannot even qualify for a “real” family, but why does it matter? thats what they were to her. they were everything she had.
Some days I know I’ll never recover. Being sober is a clean feeling inside me, but I know clean doesn’t last. The white flat surface of sobriety gets flecked, stained, marked by every day bullshit and the marks don’t come out. Drinking is the detergent.
They told me the timbre of your voice would rattle around my ears if the stress and the pitch matched some unknown and unique frequency. Here’s the scene: no low ecstatic buzz, no pumping blood, no passion. The kiss between two old friends becomes too comfortable, less charged. I don’t want to feel complacent in place of what is wild, alive, and driven. I want to feel anticipation at the edges of my lips because the voice in my ear stirs more than the air around us. Reflect it, absorb it, reorient myself around it.