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

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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