Curled up in bed with a freshly opened bottle of Cruzan rum.
Jurassic World soundtrack playing from my iPhone.
A Carhartt beanie and a old John Deere t-shirt from an ex, two sizes too big.
Also a blanket gifted to me by another ex’s mother. My feet are cold.
No glass, the bottle is fine.
There aren’t curtains to draw, though the blinds stay shut.
Ignored messages glare from their notification bubbles.
Poem after earth-shattering poem scroll up and down the dirty screen of my Macbook.
Maybe just one more sip. Just one.
Forgot to eat dinner, but now it’s already 22:09. I’ll try again tomorrow.
When did this become my life? When did I stop fighting back?


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