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Amy's Eighteenth Birthday Party
On a chaotic Saturday night,
in the depth of summer,
an unforgettable stir occurs,
containing drunken teens
in a small house on 4th street.
Where regrets are not an option
and alcohol is the problem.
The room I stand in spins
around and around
in a terrain of frenzied
colors—blurs, everywhere, unable to come clear.
There is a blur to my left
calling out my overused name
“I’m coming” I wanted to shout back
but the overbearing bumping noise
drums in my ears, louder and louder,
blocking out all thoughts of mine.
The smell of drunken sweat
lingers in the humidity.
The toxic atmosphere of the rowdy partygoers
pollutes the crisp night air.
There are people everywhere,
smashing into walls—
sometimes through them.
Clamoring through windows,
making a loud crash that nobody seems to notice.
Throwing random household objects,
like animals, monkeys,
no wonder there are theories
that our ancestors were monkeys,
the proof is all here,
in the living room of
a quaint house on 4th street.
I saunter through the numerous
dancing bodies, bumping and banging
into each other.
My legs stagger unconsciously
to the edge of the yard,
where the night air begins to clear,
and the constant banging on my eardrums settles.
I open my mouth to suck in
the sweet moonlit breeze,
but instead the contents of the night
spill out all over the clean-shaven shrubbery.
My eyelids feel heavy, I have to pry them open
in order to prevent myself from falling down.
I swat at the air unwittingly—already knowing
that my clammy palms would hit nothing.
My legs become rubber and I slip slowly
toward the solid ground; like an over-dramatic Matrix movie.
Before I know it, my ear is pressed
hard against the cold dirt,
the grass around me feels heavenly—
the bed that I’ve been longing for.
My eyelids slam shut
and my thoughts become blank,
blocking out the
sounds, smells, and tastes of regrets
from Amy’s eighteenth birthday party.