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Hangover

by Amy Baker 4 years ago in sad poetry

A Friend of the Family

While alcohol does not erase the problems that I have, it does invoke a fire to provide temporary warmth. I'm not talking about the physical warmth, but the warmth of numbness. The feeling of no longer feeling anything at all. The single thought that clouds all other thoughts. The warm escape from the screaming silence and emptiness inside you. In such sense you rather harm the body over your mind. You starve for free booze to get numb. To get so numb that that pop song you hate is pouring out your mouth. So numb where the person you hate is your closest friend. Because what you really hate is you. And if the mind is vacant and numb there is nothing to hate and no one to be hating. The induced disconnection is more comforting than the familiar disassociation. The momentary circle of drinking buddies is more important than the family you grew up to know as mere acquaintances. And the warmth keeps reminding you of the camping trip you took as a kid.

The lonely campsite that burned in the woods.

The fire dances with the oak tree branch that towered over the closely knit pile of branches. The first branch to collapse under the oak was a fir. It danced with fire that reduced it to ash, under the pile. Instinctively you cupped your hands to reach for the ash, yet it slipped through your fingers leaving cold marks forever smeared on your fingers.

The campsite cast a shadow, a shadow in which you grew up. And as you sat there, the wind brought forth embers to keep you warm. The stronger the oak burned, the warmer you were.

The ache for cool air led you in to the woods. The woods led you to a boy. And being with him opened up your eyes and chilled you to the bones the same way you sober up the second you get in your mother's car when you're completely wasted.

But like the car ride, the soberness also had an end. It threw you out on the curb and left your system via induced vomiting.

And here you are a shell, burned by warmth, chilled to the bone, and with a bad taste in your mouth that follows you the rest of your night.

sad poetry

Amy Baker

I lived through stuff and survived some stuff. Well survived physically, not so sure about my mental state. I am what I am. Take what you can of the stories of how I become. Learn from my mistakes, but share my joys as well.

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Amy Baker
Read next: DEAD END

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