I Survived Friday Night but Saturday Morning Feels Like a Death March.


We were in the backseat measuring plastic. Time was a fingernail-
Aware of arrival-steady as keratin grows. Even on the dead.
I was immensely stimulated. Hiccupping. Talking.
“Park further down the street.” Slapped the back of the driver’s pate.

Intoxicated at the bar. Amelie consumed a White Russian. Accepted
Broken flowers as blush. She said; “is this awkward? Shouldn’t this be
Awkward?” Pretty boys dropped in and out of our conversation.
Landing on words like flies on trash. From their absence found the perfect interval
To respond. “No this doesn’t have to be awkward.” “Am I still a muse to you?”
“You’ll always be a muse. Inspiration comes whenever.” She blinked.
A tear glistened in the corner of her eye but couldn’t break free.

Intoxicated at home. Alec held a blade to Joe’s throat. Twice.
“I’ll fuck a bitch up!” Joe shouted. I found myself restraining him
Like a straitjacket. People separated. Amelie headed towards the door
With her beautiful companion. I watched them walk
Down the stairs. She filled the air with a lasting question;
“What the hell happened to your life!?”
I didn’t respond. I don’t think she expected an answer, anyway.
But we can be friends
So long as we keep our knives in their sheaths.

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