I was at that awkward moment between kissing a stranger,
and losing my keys.
Swaying in the bite infested grass,
an empty bottle slipping from limp fingers.
Maybe if I just started digging, I could find a bed.
Soft, wet dirt
cool bright winks from the sky.
If this was tomorrow, I'd be fine.
But its a school night,
and I'm painfully aware of the knots in the ground
and the dry nausea in the back of my aching head.
Like dropped paint cans.
The stain.
The splat.
The stink.
The clamour.
The throbbing aftermath.

I can't fix this.