I sit with my back against the bathtub
waiting for my mouth to start watering again
so I know when the vomit is coming.
I want to hate you. I want to hate you
for making me sad enough to drink
until I could only remember parts of what you said:
I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be distant.
My head is pounding too much
and the room is spinning too much
and I think I can feel the acid in my mouth.
I’m twenty-one and I still cry every time
I throw up and I’m not sure why.
I remember the girl who rubbed my back
and told me I was okay two Novembers ago
when the vodka and the weed came back up.
I never miss her, but occasionally you remember
the little things you loved about the people
who ended up hurting you.
But now I’m alone. And what’s the use in calling
because even if you answer what is there to say?
You made me so sad that I drank myself to sickness?
I chalk it up on the list that I’ve been thinking about
since I took my first sip of moonshine six hours ago.
It’s above Why do you act like you don’t care?
and below Why the fuck are we even fighting?
And when my cousins and I were playing
Never Have I Ever and Madison said
“never have I ever been in love,”
I raised my hand, took another couple sips
that I knew wouldn’t stay down, and I wrote
Do you love me or don’t you? You’d say “I do.”
Then how come I never feel like it? And when
McKayla asked me why I looked so sad
and I replied “I’m fine,” I wrote down
I promised myself I wouldn’t settle for this again.
And then Bella chimed in and said,
“Don’t be sad about her. There’s so many
red flags anyway. Just move on.” I wrote,
Will you ever see that I’m fighting for you?
Now I think I’m done throwing up
but the tears don’t stop. And before I realize
what I’m doing, I’m staring into the mirror
hanging across from me, on the back
of the bathroom door. I pretend my reflection
is you—black hair, blue eyes, septum piercing and all.
I’m done being nice to you. I’m done letting things go.
If you know I’m hurting, why don’t you do something?
Do you even care about me anymore?
Why do you treat me like you hate me sometimes?
Why do you leave me in silence when you know I need you?
Why do you hurt me when you know I love you?
As it turns out, you and my reflection
aren’t so different after all, because
neither of you can give me any answers.
waiting for my mouth to start watering again
so I know when the vomit is coming.
I want to hate you. I want to hate you
for making me sad enough to drink
until I could only remember parts of what you said:
I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be distant.
My head is pounding too much
and the room is spinning too much
and I think I can feel the acid in my mouth.
I’m twenty-one and I still cry every time
I throw up and I’m not sure why.
I remember the girl who rubbed my back
and told me I was okay two Novembers ago
when the vodka and the weed came back up.
I never miss her, but occasionally you remember
the little things you loved about the people
who ended up hurting you.
But now I’m alone. And what’s the use in calling
because even if you answer what is there to say?
You made me so sad that I drank myself to sickness?
I chalk it up on the list that I’ve been thinking about
since I took my first sip of moonshine six hours ago.
It’s above Why do you act like you don’t care?
and below Why the fuck are we even fighting?
And when my cousins and I were playing
Never Have I Ever and Madison said
“never have I ever been in love,”
I raised my hand, took another couple sips
that I knew wouldn’t stay down, and I wrote
Do you love me or don’t you? You’d say “I do.”
Then how come I never feel like it? And when
McKayla asked me why I looked so sad
and I replied “I’m fine,” I wrote down
I promised myself I wouldn’t settle for this again.
And then Bella chimed in and said,
“Don’t be sad about her. There’s so many
red flags anyway. Just move on.” I wrote,
Will you ever see that I’m fighting for you?
Now I think I’m done throwing up
but the tears don’t stop. And before I realize
what I’m doing, I’m staring into the mirror
hanging across from me, on the back
of the bathroom door. I pretend my reflection
is you—black hair, blue eyes, septum piercing and all.
I’m done being nice to you. I’m done letting things go.
If you know I’m hurting, why don’t you do something?
Do you even care about me anymore?
Why do you treat me like you hate me sometimes?
Why do you leave me in silence when you know I need you?
Why do you hurt me when you know I love you?
As it turns out, you and my reflection
aren’t so different after all, because
neither of you can give me any answers.