Wondering and Horrified

 Sick.

So fucking sick.

Face in the toilet bowl, 

Puking my guts out... forcefully and willingly at the same time.

Wondering, 

"Why did I drink so much tequila?"

"Did I drink that much tequila?" 

Periodically laying on the cold, hard vinyl flooring that looks like dark wood.

My face hitting the sweats I wore the night before. Feeling, disgusted in myself.

I hadn't "drunk puked" in a while, it has definitely been over a year. Why tonight? 

Because it was my first night out since my mom took her own life? Maybe.

Because so many people asked me what I was out "celebrating" and I would simply say "life"?

Because almost all of them, except the silly drunk young men, would see that my eyes were empty and lost as I forced a smile? 

My friend bought me a thirty minute private dance from a stripper, whose real name is Cheyenne, and all we did was talk. I didn't give her details, but she kept telling me "whatever is going on in your life, it is all going to be OK. I can see it in your eyes. I can feel it in your soul." 

Was I that readable?

"I'm an empath" she said, then explaining what an empath was, like I didn't know. Little did she know I was one too, which is why my soul is  painstakingly shredded.

The stripclub closed, and I found myself talking with an older gentleman. I wish I remember his name. He looked like a William or a Charles. He was an emergency room doctor, who frequented the club five days a week, spending over $800/ week on the dancer I just had a therapy session with. We spoke about poetry, as I drunkenly slurred that I was a "poet by night." 

Fascinated he inquired about my favorite poet. 

"Poe" is always my answer.  Dark, mysterious and ill. I lust after his demons.  "Blake is one of my favorites," he smirked while shaking his head. He told me, in the kindest way, that I was foolish for adoring Poe, since he was an alcoholic with severe depression... but that was the glamor that I adored in Poe's work. The glamor of his pain.

I hope we meet again, doctor. 

Your soul was kind, and welcoming to my foolish adorations. 

Fast forward to my bathroom floor.

The cool, hard floor.

I was drunk, so damn drunk and so damn sick. 

When I finally felt good enough to lay down, I felt like somebody wrapped their arms tightly around me. Letting me know I was held... as I drifted into the worst nightmare of my life.

I wonder if that's how mom felt every day... I sure hope not. Fuck.

I miss her.