And seventeen years
Pouring itself over
Like the two packs of
Cheap warm beer
Each bottle opened
half-finished
Like the unceasing hours
Of a long fucking night
On this day
Those years ago
That I spent agonizing
The barrel of a gun in my mouth
I can taste the reluctance
The bitterness of the WD-40
As my tongue shirks back
And my teeth painfully gnash again
To stop the repeated trauma
From their painful anxious chattering
I can see the call logs
In fact, I still have them saved
The twelve people I called
The eight messages I left
The one redeeming forty five minute call
From someone equally as lost