On Tuesday

The first night, I stayed up shaking.

I could stop myself when I concentrated—

When I got myself to stop thinking about her—

Which took tremendous effort to do—

And I could only manage for a few seconds at a time—

But eventually, I fell asleep. 

The second night,

I wrote shitty poems about it;

Which,

 Who the hell knows if that even helps anymore?

And I got really high;

Which, 

Who the hell knows if that even helps anymore?

Tomorrow, I should make it back to home,

But, for fucksake,

Calling it home now,

Feels wrong.

It feels ugly.

Because,

She’s my home now.

And then on Tuesday I should drink until I fall back asleep. 

CH 12/14/25