Broken Bottles
I used to convince myself that I was a midnight snack
That I was something that people took, with or without permission
I was something that the person who took was ashamed of
But not ashamed enough to stop walking down the hall
A wonder falls aimlessly throughout my mind
Was it even real? I ask to myself. Or maybe was it a horrible dream
I can never convince myself of either, I know it is true
But my memories are so choppy that I want to pretend it isn't
And yet I remain spread out on the couch, left by the remnants of hunger
Like a shot glass, empty and small and fragile
I can hardly remember when he bit the first bite into me
Taking away chunks of my sanity, scooping them out of my stomach
Sometimes I still feel as though I were an empty wine glass
Lying on a bed, feeling already dead, so premature but not soon enough
Air going into my broken lungs
And it feels as though it were a contamination