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about a boy who used to sing
last night he drank the better part
of a twelve pack, then threw up in
your bathroom sink and all over the
pretty marble tiles. today he woke up on the floor.
and still, no one blames him for this mess.
he wears a pensive look on his face most days,
but on some it turns to a more careless,
and that’s when we know he’s drunk.
one night, a bottle of vodka sat between his legs
and he stared into space with his cloud-covered eyes.
“i figured out that i like sleeping,
but i hate waking up –
i figured out that i like nightmares,
because at least i get a moment of relief
when i wake up, and i can say,
‘at least my life is not that bad.’ you know?”
the morning after i find him
clothed and asleep in the bathtub.
cold water is running over him;
his coal-colored hair is damp and
plastered to his forehead.
his head rests over the side and
vomit trailed down from the
corners of his mouth onto the cement tiles.
tonight the stars are going blind and
i want to think it’s because of him –
but it might be because of me.