i'm drunk and spinning and falling on the floor--
running away from pictures of you that are inescapable.

i'm reaching for my phone every six minutes--
too inebriated to realize that a text is not coming.

i'm asking for more to drown out the want--
i want anything that will make me stop hoping.

i'm laughing and telling everyone i know that it doesn't bother me--
wondering that if i say it enough it might come true.

this year, february eighth was not mine, it was yours.
and that makes me angry.