It's 2 a.m.,
I've been holding your hand
for two hours
through this drunk phone call
and you continue
to slur your speech,
spilling out everything
you thought I should know.

I was calm,
if neither of us was,
I would've hung up long ago.
As you begin to cry,
your voice gets increasingly louder
and somehow more steady
with each syllable you get out
(through the alcohol)
the liquid gives you courage
I wish you didn't have,
and I feel the burn
of tears coming on,
but I can't,
I won't
I have to fix you.

I have hung up now,
and I don't know what you are doing,
or if you will remember this,
but thanks to my sobriety,
I will remember forever.
It will replay in my mind
for weeks
and I won't sleep tonight.
You have disrupted
my perfectly planned night,
and despite your flattery
and guilt,
I am angry,
because you gave me this burden,
a burden I shouldn't have to carry.

It's 2:17 a.m.,
the shower is my comfort,
and as the heat hits my back,
I feel the panic rise.
I pull myself a little closer,
hoping my stomach won't fall out,
down,
down,
down,
into the drain.
The water streams out faster, and
I pretend the water is ridding me
of you.
Gripping tightly onto the curtain, I get out
and my eyelids hang heavy,
no longer able to shed their skins.
Suddenly,
sitting on my bed,
I can't control my spinning head, and
sleep

makes me forget.