HANGOVER (a poem)
Head resting against porcelain.
Hand clutching,
as the coolness fails to calm the pounding in my head.
I wish someone was stroking my hair.
With that out of my mouth flies the reason I wanted to give you a blow job last night,
falls every little secret I told to people who should not have been told.
Dribbling from my lips are bits and pieces of regret, loneliness, and shame.
Paranoia heaves within my chest,
as I try and fill the holes of my Swiss Cheese evening with condiments of assumption.
My bed is both a comforting companion
and a painfully cold casket.
I yank my own hair,
wondering if I really asked you to do the same last night, or was that just part of a dream?
For my memories feel like dreams, my thoughts knives,
and the ringing doorbell an AK47 to my brain.
Orange juice and a plain bagel,
Warm shower and an Advil,
Big smile and denial.
That’s how I’ll get through my day.
