Numb
I remember the feeling each time you try to reach for the bottle.
Instead you reach through my chest,
breaking my ribs like glass,
tearing through my skin
like a giddy, eight year old boy
ripping through a piñata
with an aluminum
Louisville Slugger.
I can feel it as the scars burst open
leaving me open and exposed,
unveiling my palpitating heart.
There are your fingers,
searching desperately
for that plastic, Popov monster,
finding only my veins and arteries
to drink from
and get drunk off of.
You become frantic,
digging deeper.
Acid rain pours from my stomach.
My head gets light.
I see stars.
I am numb.
I am anxious/comfortable.
I am numb.
Beneath my eyes,
buried under my cheeks,
I can feel my heavy heart beating,
struggling to make ends meet
like a 45 year old auto mechanic
in a faded blue,
oil stained jumpsuit.
My fingers twitch nervously,
but I am composed.
I am a well fitted suit
on the body of the CEO of a fortune 500 company.
I am a 3 year old Tootsie Roll
getting hard in a bowl
on a mid century dining table.
I am cool, calm, and collected.
I am the engine of a NASCAR vehicle.
I am numb.
But I am okay.
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