Extra little push.

I shouldn’t have gone to see her.
I splashed the cold water up into my face. Breathe. Breathe.
It had been to long since I had last felt her touch, smelt the seduction of cigarettes. Her cigarrettes.
My independance was fake. For months I ignored the gnawing in my stomach, the random
times she would appear in my
dreams. And you would still be thinking of  them days later. Analyze. Analyze, analyze !
I had stuffed these feelings down. Stopped calling. Stopped emailing.
I had him. He is my everything.
Pretending I didn’t need her. I was confident. I was stable.
But when I close my eyes and he kisses me, I am scared to be alone in my mind.
Who’s hand do I take when I wander into my fantasies?

I drank. The sound of the beer tab opening gave me confidence. Conversation started to flow.
Laughter. Beer. Smoke. Beer. Liquor. Smoke.
I felt like hers again.
And when you wake up in what feels like moments later – holding on to a prozac and alcohol delerium – you start to
really wonder
if you’re worth it. If you just had the courage to press down,
that extra little pressure
that extra little push. The flash of sharp silver against a crimson red – almost eyecatching.
She helped me up off the sofa. I was drunk. Wet.
"She passed out and wet herself. Lets get her up."
I woke up next to him, steady breathing. Gag-stale cigarrette odour.
I can feel the guilt choke me,
that extra little push on my heart.

I thought about things today. I’m really starting to crave seeing the crimson against that silver.
I want to call it masochistic art. No one else seems to see the beauty in it.
I want there to be calm after this storm.