One night spent
chasing her through
small town streets;
drunk on straight vodka (£3.99) and
liquid fear (she'd had more).
I caught up with her
she'd carved into her wrists with a bottle top
(I'd paid) and she told me
she'd almost been raped
watched a man finger fuck Lucy
(drunk on cheap wine, old hate).
She cried giggles in a stained doorway
watched the rain clear
(both our heads) and then
stumbled (almost) home.
She ate Christmas chocolate;
I cleaned her wrists with
make-up wipes and
told her about prozactherapiststhose guilty stares.
It was a (customary) Saturday night and
she was my best friend;
now we sit at paint spattered desks
and talk about weekends, homework, chores
(once a day).
We don't really see each other anymore.
a/n: I know this issn't particularly good; it's not very poetic and it kinda just all runs together. I just sorta need to let go- I'll take it off in a while if no one really likes it.