It’s 3 AM.
The bathroom counter digs into my hands
As I grip the edge,
Trying to remember how I got home.
The warm, yellow haze of the lights flicker,
Suddenly so unfamiliar.
I don’t recognize the girl in the mirror staring back at me,
Dark circles ring around haunted, empty eyes.
My eyes flick up to the dried blood matting my hair,
Decorating my left temple.
I look back down at my raw hands,
Swollen and numb
From the shock of the frigid water.
But the blood won’t come out of my underwear.
The faucet squeaks as I shut the water off.
I wrap my sodden underwear with paper towel,
And bury it at the bottom of the trash can.
For the first time
I danced that night,
With the idea that I wanted to die.