Pitch-black room, bare dirt stained wall,
Half-dead phone with no missed calls,
Tremendous pain, just a few bruises,
No clear-cut memories, did I choose this?
One gentle hug and one comforting whisper,
Dozens and dozens of bottles of liquor.
They’ve all moved on and you should too,
You’re just the millionth case, what did you expect them to do?
Feeling like an imposter drowned in familiar faces,
With every accidental brush, your heart beat races.
He’s moved on and you really should too,
He gave an apology, what more can he do?
A year goes by, it’s gotten better with time,
Or maybe it hasn’t but you’ve perfected the lie,
Vodka induced sleep and recreational pain,
Your go-to recipe for trying to stay sane.
The brutal reality is after it’s done,
After the excruciating pain at your expense is called fun,
After the version of yourself you’ve known for life is all gone,
You just get up the next morning and then you move on.
