A Piece of Me

I used to be this girl. I used to live everyday like this. I wrote this after rehab and prefer to look back on it as something bittersweet and something that could possibly be someone else’s life.

I am nothing but cigarette smoke staining your plaid, wool futon. The visible memories you left strewn across the cushions. Those days were dull and the sun displayed the cool orange of the carpet. The rays were few through the tattered bed sheets nailed to the frame of the window. Dust particles danced in the room but only few million found the spotlights. Marlboros rest in a brimming ashtray and the smoke rises in a steady coil. The black screen of the television plays its own movie. It reflects two people slouched deep on the couch.

A man rests with two feet on an old, can-covered coffee table. His socks bore holes and there was an eternal brown tint. He wore boxers, shades of blue, which fell far below his belly button. His chest was bare and boy-like, but warm. His face covered in short brown scruff but his soft, pink lips so supple and alluring. His eyelashes long and curled gated his bright blue eyes and they stayed closed. His right arm wrapped around the shoulders and his hand rested lightly on the right breast of the second body.
Her hair was long, dark, and matted. Strands stuck to her puffy baby-like lips and across her smooth cheeks. Leaning into him, her legs curled up and knees near her stomach. Her shorts rode high on her thighs and her white tank top rolled up to the space below her breasts. Her feet bare and a faint scar graced her knee. Her toes curled under and continued being cold. Her eyes darker than a starless night. She exerted a dead stare across the room and watched the blank screen of the television. Music played faintly from an old record player in the corner of the room, monotonously skipping on the same section. Those days were dull and the sun displayed our life through a sun-stained television set.

Journal Comments