I Know What's Burning, And It's Not the Whiskey

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I used to think that bubble wrap,
Was the best way to go.
 
That touching the world,
Through a pane of glass,
Was better than feeling the warmth,
Beneath my fingers.
 
I used to bet money on the phrase,
"If you tell yourself something often enough,
It'll become true."
 
And then you left.
And my bubble wrap popped.
 
And now my pane of glass is broken,
The shards rooted deep into my hands,
Leaving a searing sting,
No amount of Neosporin can soothe.
 
Left with trails of blood,
Running down my arms,
The jagged fragments digging deeper,
Reminding me that this time,
I can't pick up all the pieces.
 
What wasn't meant to be broken in the first place,
Is now laying scattered on the floor.
 
Pieces left on a stairwell,
A restaurant booth,
Under a bus,
And in your pocket.
 
The same pocket that held,
A bottle of Jack Daniels,
And a promise.
 
A promise to repeat that first kiss,
To make it burn,
Burn like the pain in my hand.
 
I thought,
I was doing it right.
 
But the wakeup call from numbness,
Only drowns the pleasure,
And ignites the pain.

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