11.10.17-11.12.17
Friday
Sharpie etched on my left forearm, tally marks mimicking the faded scars lacing their way up my arm like ladder rungs.
Hours of shaking alcohol up in a Gatorade bottle, different potions and elixirs for my poor soul to drink thirstily.
We wander to the cafeteria in search of a vending machine. We do this twice, in pursuit of more Sprite. I don't know how we make it past the RA, the guard dog, watching the door.
7 mixed drinks, 1 shot.
The night is spent on the top of a bunk bed, her arm looped lazily across my midsection, holding me tight. I distinctly remember my fingers gently grazing the top of her hand, back and forth, searching for some semblance of feeling.
I knew what I felt, but her feelings still remain unclear.
Unclear or nonexistent.
I teeter over the edge of the bunk bed, much like I'm constantly teetering in my own life, basking in my own personal spotlight, always ready to fall off of my tightrope.
I wanted to fall, but I wanted her to catch me more.
Saturday
The morning is drenched in acid burning my mouth, the familiar feeling of vomit, the usual scrape of teeth against dry knuckles. I look in the mirror to find a ghost with dry skin and creased eyeshadow, greasy hair and mascara flaking down her face.
She's unrecognizable.
The aftermath is a night with her off-key singing new Disney songs that I've never heard before. She coughs through the sniffles and high notes she can't reach.
We order shitty takeout food and complain as we eat it anyway.
Then there's a phone call, 2 AM, stuck at a baseball house, can you please come and pick us up?
She perks up the second she hears me ask "Are you okay?"
The question I'm constantly asking everybody, the question nobody bothers to ask me anymore.
Perhaps they already know the answer, perhaps they just don't fucking care.
We trudge out into the cold, dodge the vomit on the sidewalk, they sit on each other's laps as we embark on an adventure we didn't plan.
The stench of beer fills my car as three people enter, and I turn around on the winding road, speed past the family of deer perched on the side, ready to head home.
We stumble inside, stumble back to bed, ready to hibernate once again.
Sunday
Sick.
They are so sick.
We're attached at the hip at this point, bonded by all of the experiences we've had together.
We decided to shower at the same time because we just can't be separated.
Clean hair, shaved legs, skin finally breaking out from alcohol consumption.
I am clean, I am fresh, I am ready to conquer everything again.
Or am I?
So quickly the weekend is over and responsibilities seep into my pores again, real life begins to suffocate me, its hands are wrapped around my neck too tight.
Do I let it strangle me before I strangle myself?
Sharpie etched on my left forearm, tally marks mimicking the faded scars lacing their way up my arm like ladder rungs.
Hours of shaking alcohol up in a Gatorade bottle, different potions and elixirs for my poor soul to drink thirstily.
We wander to the cafeteria in search of a vending machine. We do this twice, in pursuit of more Sprite. I don't know how we make it past the RA, the guard dog, watching the door.
7 mixed drinks, 1 shot.
The night is spent on the top of a bunk bed, her arm looped lazily across my midsection, holding me tight. I distinctly remember my fingers gently grazing the top of her hand, back and forth, searching for some semblance of feeling.
I knew what I felt, but her feelings still remain unclear.
Unclear or nonexistent.
I teeter over the edge of the bunk bed, much like I'm constantly teetering in my own life, basking in my own personal spotlight, always ready to fall off of my tightrope.
I wanted to fall, but I wanted her to catch me more.
Saturday
The morning is drenched in acid burning my mouth, the familiar feeling of vomit, the usual scrape of teeth against dry knuckles. I look in the mirror to find a ghost with dry skin and creased eyeshadow, greasy hair and mascara flaking down her face.
She's unrecognizable.
The aftermath is a night with her off-key singing new Disney songs that I've never heard before. She coughs through the sniffles and high notes she can't reach.
We order shitty takeout food and complain as we eat it anyway.
Then there's a phone call, 2 AM, stuck at a baseball house, can you please come and pick us up?
She perks up the second she hears me ask "Are you okay?"
The question I'm constantly asking everybody, the question nobody bothers to ask me anymore.
Perhaps they already know the answer, perhaps they just don't fucking care.
We trudge out into the cold, dodge the vomit on the sidewalk, they sit on each other's laps as we embark on an adventure we didn't plan.
The stench of beer fills my car as three people enter, and I turn around on the winding road, speed past the family of deer perched on the side, ready to head home.
We stumble inside, stumble back to bed, ready to hibernate once again.
Sunday
Sick.
They are so sick.
We're attached at the hip at this point, bonded by all of the experiences we've had together.
We decided to shower at the same time because we just can't be separated.
Clean hair, shaved legs, skin finally breaking out from alcohol consumption.
I am clean, I am fresh, I am ready to conquer everything again.
Or am I?
So quickly the weekend is over and responsibilities seep into my pores again, real life begins to suffocate me, its hands are wrapped around my neck too tight.
Do I let it strangle me before I strangle myself?
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