Empty Bags; No Refills Bottles

3:34 in the
morning
and I can
already begin
to feel
the come down.

S**t,
s**t,
s**t.

I ran out.

I ran out of all of
it,
and I’ll probably be up all night
like this,
cause I’m not tired
and I can’t go through this
alone
any other way.

F**k.

Just a little more
and I’d be able to sit back
and forget about
the dresses and the jewelry
you left in my closet
and your car I
wrecked
and the health insurance I lost
and the stink in my piss
and my aching throat
and the blood
I spew from it
every morning
and the pain in my ribs
form the accident
that gets worse
every day
and at least convince myself
it’ll go away if I wait it out
because it
just
can’t
get
worse.

Maybe there’s some powder
left behind
in one the bottles I can lick
off the plastic
and I’ll get my
goosebumps back,

and maybe for
half an hour more,

I can feel the blood in my veins
evaporate
and slowly
rise from out of my
pores

while I nod off

under the blankets,
scratching myself,
moaning
until I wake up the next morning
and try to figure out
how I’m going to cope
once that sun goes down,
empty handed
and heavy
headed.