Our Type of Kissing

That night, I cry. Heart wrenching sobs that scare the neighbor’s cat. The

apartment next door actually bangs on my wall. I throw open the drawers

looking for a knife, a razor anything, but everywhere I look I can only find

notes saying “I’m sorry.” The wet pulse of my vein is screaming with my

internal assault. I crumple to the floor sobbing, making a list of reasons why

I’m not good enough. I keep thinking of Chris’s face. How he never says he

loves me, how he’s never kissed, or for that matter, truly embraced me. I

push my hair out of my face, disciplining myself on how crying doesn’t solve

things, but the crying helps for the moment. The childlike innocence of

screeching for no reason touches a part of my from long ago that gasps for

air. All the raw energy builds up, shaking me. Or that could be my stomach

growling. No need to get too philosophical. I grab a beer to satisfy both, just

in case. I fall on my bed and realize I am not winning tonight. I have no new

battle scars. I drag my self to the toilet and throw up.