Scenes on the Cutting Room Floor

When I wake up the next morning
I always wonder if it’s normal
to feel this hung over without drinking.

I don’t remember everything from last night.
Moments come back in hazy fragments—
Cursing and screaming in the hall like we
don’t have neighbors in this building
Only half-hoping the things I threw wouldn't break
And trying to convince myself that I was
still in control.
I think I remember shaking and crying and
Feeling the weight of a dozen books on my chest and
Trying to fight nothing while the room got bigger around me.

Like driving through fog, I only recall
Vague outlines of woods and the curve of the road,
Not the color of the leaves or the shape of the trees
Or how the fucking lamp got shattered on the living room floor.