Sometimes memory rears up to tear holes in my composure.

Crouched on the floor of the back room, in the furthest corner of the restaurant you work in, sobbing in the middle of a shift, incapable of moving for several long minutes

Slamming the back of your head into the headboard, the wall, whatever, just to make it stop. Even as you black out, it doesn’t stop.

Punching holes into sheetrock, tearing your knuckles open on trees, your car, punching a crack into marble tile a half inch thick. As long as it isn’t them. As long as it doesn’t touch them.

Holding yourself under water until the world fades and your body takes over. Rinse. Repeat.

The faster the better the faster the better the faster the better the faster the better the father the better the faster the better the faster the better the faster the better the faster the better the faster the better the faster the better the faster the better the faster the better

Drink it. Drink all of it. Puke it up drink more of it.