Blacked-out

This is the only thing left after a week-long bender of swallowing heart and anxiety with a whiskey chaser. There's a shell here, but a shell is a place that used to be a home and I'm not convinced the name fits. The blurred truth I slurred through drunken teeth holds confessions of love and swearing sobriety, hanging like a blanket over my head, pulling my neck this way and that while heat builds with every exhale and loose strings fall in my eyes. This is the first step towards suffocation, the fabric calmly climbing up my neck until it pulls my lips apart with gentle cotton fingers and softly settles at the back of my throat. I'm holding my nose and telling myself it's not the end, I've swallowed sheets and pillows since childhood but I'm afraid there's no space left for oxygen. These are the last few minutes of frantic, and I will revel in the fireworks behind my eyelids. I will revel in blacked-out love.