You're only twenty one once
"Catch your breathe, you're only twenty one"
The window unit whines a familiar drone, and I find myself relating more to artless walls than people. I keep looking at my hands expecting them to fall away and maybe learn to live on my own without nails to chew on. Instead, I watch smoke glide between them. Counting the seconds it takes for just one of many pretty embers to shrink away into something I haven't fully learned to talk about aloud. I feel beautiful when nobody's looking. I feel like I'm a guilty pleasure it's easy to confess crime scenes with. We'll just take a shot and wake up naked, dress and smile as if nothing happened. I'm never sober and midnight is forgiving. I'll promise a wet scream but then these eyes. These eyes retain lies only gifted instruments deserve to hang on to; sharp angles of a moon not quite full, but good enough in the moment. I'm not here to save anyone. I'm here too inspire. Aspire for everything, and never fall victim for all the allusions I preach claiming angels only appear to the damaged. I'm not the same woman that used to watch God stream down through the window in coffin clouded sunshine as I once was. I'm not a sad almost mother. I'm not a sad bastard vomiting on pictures I was too young to appreciate. I'm a poem. I'm everything I ever dreamed was good enough to consider the fetal position on brutal Monday night cradling disappointment. A gargoyle hesitates, and the wind promises everything she couldn't. Rain. Rain. There isn't any rain but Texas might surprise you if an hour isn't too long. I've made it a habit of collecting tattoos that remind me of cold December memories. Medication. I'd rather overdose. The roaches get it, and in a way, that's all that ever mattered. Shhh. We talk too much. I talk too much. There's always more to say when there's nothing to feel deep enough to piss on. I love making potpourri more than nostalgia because it crumbles on my will. I stay sleeping, and my mother worries. White face masks haunt the pieces of me I wish would fade. Whiskey knows better. Grams knows better. I won't be twenty one next week, but I almost made it past what you can't understand. It's all a thought. This is all passing.