she stands wearily against any set of spare arms,
feeling the alcohol subside
and the memories flood in
"this is what the night gave me"
she thinks
and this is not what i am
but this is who I have let myself become
there is no happiness there.
thank yous and commiserations
what were you after, again?
love Her.
the people who love her are told to ignore
eyes avert themselves from blinding miseries felt by those dearest to them
later in the backyard propped up in the passenger seat of an old rusting truck,
recognizing that the patterns of the leaves against the sky
are the same as leaves floating, layering on the hood.
She sits next to her best friend.
She only mutters "I am still so fucked."
They laugh
Afterall, that was the point.
drunken nights left her wishing he would have read her name like he just learned it yesterday
and at home now, on the back porch in the sun, with the nerves of the bumble bees
she looks at the bottoms of her feet
and wonders how they'll look
trailing home after a long hot day in july
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