seventeen text messages. 
left on read.
you still haven't texted me back.

i nestle my pseudo lover. 
i wrap my hands around her neck. 
a bottle of Honey Jack. 
something, anything to shade
this gray into black.
i've always been chasing
that which you lack.

i wonder who you're with,
and where you are.
these privileged thoughts 
are for the naive.
i chew five xanax
for my nightly reprieve.

i hear five knocks at my door.
"sawyer, it's me!"

the onset of vertigo.
my feet betray reason
as i walk to the front door.

both hands press 
against the wooden door.
"you can't keep doing this to me"
my words slur in my pathetic state.
"let me in already, i want you right now"
and just as a puppet dances with string,
i unlock my door and invite you inside.

you're wearing a black, 
faded denim miniskirt.
torn fishnets.
you reek of liquor
and cheap cigarettes.

"have you been using again, sawyer?"
"you already know the answer. why are you here?"
"you're my boyfriend, duh!"
"love isn't supposed to feel like this."
"what is love supposed to feel like then?"
"i feel like i'm dying"
"baby, why don't we die together then?"

remember when we would get high,
just to have fun?

Sawyer S.