Curled up at the edge of my bed,
A tear, blurred now, inhale, a hitched breath.
Cross fingers, bite my lips
Metal filled in my senses, a tiny sound escapes.
My knees lie so weak, walls ringing storms.
Not trying to stand but I know I would fall.
So lie there, lifeless, or wishful that I was.
Defeated, return to darkness and to slumber I call.
YOU ARE READING
ONE SHOT TOO MANY
PoetryIn wretched pain, I drank one too many shots of you. Poetry is difficult when you rethink and revise and refine. So, I'd rather not. We'll go one shot, too many at times.
