last night you were in my bed

the first guest in my bed and I

remember the last time someone sank themselves in my embrace

that was a desert ago, but I

am the same person, the sane person

you whispered feathers into my ears and foam into my nerves

you trailed moonlight down my chest and I

I’ve never known love like you’ve known love but I think

don’t think

I think I’m ready

you left the lights on and the bed made

your eyes soft and forgiving, unknowing, and you ask,

who hurt you?


the air is still in my lungs

the day after

Things to do today:

1) Breathe in.

2) Breathe out.

—        Ned Vizzini, It’s Kind of a Funny Story


Breathe in. Sara opens her eyes. She’s in bed, the covers pulled up to beneath her eyes. Her face feels tight, swollen. The room is bright, too bright. She rolls her eyes and turns away from the window, slipping back under the darkness of her eyelids.


Images flashing too quickly to follow. A bouquet of dark crimson roses in her arms. A procession. Her mother. A stranger with a sad smile. Strangers, all with sad smiles. Black shoes and black pants-black shirts-black ties-black eyes-a frame-a portrait and-


There’s a hand on her shoulder. It’s resting on the blanket. Its weight is comforting. That is, until it starts moving. The hand is… moving? It’s gripping her, swaying her slightly. A voice, muffled, comes through the comforter. It sounds tired and vaguely frustrated.


Continue reading “the day after”