You wake tired, in your clothes, with the light on and your shoes tied.
Next to a man or not next to a man, on the couch or on your bed,
Your wool felt hat crushed under your feet, or perched on your head shielding your mascara crusted eyes, like the rim of salt on a cold sweet margarita. with a cramp in your neck from the awkward tipped over position you passed out in, or just the dry gummy taste of bourbon and sleep fuzzy on the back of your tongue.
your jeans unbuttoned, fly unzipped, and waist band pulled down below your hips, just below the crotch of your underwears, or solidly pulled up to your waist the stretch of suspenders digging into your skin leaving thin red marks just half an inch in wide on your shoulders. It is your house. It is not your house. The bed is unfamiliar. The bed is softer than yours, the room smells of boys, or men, the hot breath of sleeping inebriated men. The room smells of sex. The room smells of bleach and dandelion. The room does not smell or rather you can not smell anything except maybe the traces of cocaine. The man is your friend he is naked, you wake to find his hard dick pressed into the small of your back or even the palm of your hand. On the couch your computer glows at you, porn flickers across the screen, a half eaten bananna crushed into the upholstery under your hip. It smells like coffee, sounds of breakfast making wake you, and your housemate whistles at you through your curtain, you whistle back. You waken to the alarm on your phone, it takes you two full minutes to locate the phone on the floor next to the bed but on his side, where you never put it, you reach across his fully clothed (blue jeans red flannel buttoned all the way up, white sneakers, shaved head) lithe body, his breath hot on your cheek smells of rosemary, he does not waken. The jackhammers wake you, they are jack hammering the street just outside the window, only 20 feet away, this window has white curtains, bay windows, there's a dark wood floor, a white defunct fireplace, a blond wood desk with a stool piled high with oversized magazines, clothing radiates out from the bed like a corona. Who's room is this. Your tank top is wet and your neck aches.
It is noon. It is 2pm. It is 8am. It is 9am.
You jerk awake, leaving sleep like you jumped from a bridge.
You ease out of it, like easing into the cold cold ocean, in jumps jabs, with breath held high in the chest.
Your mind wakes up but your body sleeps and you are stuck there, tipped over, bannana under you, pants down.
You are in the bathroom staring into your own red eyes before you know you're awake. your hands braced on either side of the small metal sink, your neck thrust forward your forhead just inches from the large plate mirror, water from the counter seeping into the crotch of your white jeans, the shower is running, you can smell the steam and mildew.
Your roomate comes into your room, not knowing there is a man there, and that he is rubbing your chest.
You roll off the couch.
The jackhammers do not stop and you can't find your wallet.
Your computer falls off the couch, the screen does not crack but it does flicker, the porn continues.
The flourescent light whines.
Your jacket is under the desk.
It is raining. It is sunny. There is silence, post apocolyptic. There is the chatter of the homeless only 6feet below your window like a conference of birds. It is windy. You can hear it, under the jack hammering, behind the kitchen sounds, after your housemate whistles just before the crash of your computer falling. You're tangled in sheets or just on top of them, a pillow under your arm, or on the floor. no pillow. You wake tired, in your clothes, with the light on and your shoes tied.
Next to a man or not next to a man, on the couch or on your bed,
Your wool felt hat crushed under your feet, or perched on your head shielding your mascara crusted eyes, like the rim of salt on a cold sweet margarita. with a cramp in your neck from the awkward tipped over position you passed out in, or just the dry gummy taste of bourbon and sleep fuzzy on the back of your tongue.
your jeans unbuttoned, fly unzipped, and waist band pulled down below your hips, just below the crotch of your underwears, or solidly pulled up to your waist the stretch of suspenders digging into your skin leaving thin red marks just half an inch in wide on your shoulders. It is your house. It is not your house. The bed is unfamiliar. The bed is softer than yours, the room smells of boys, or men, the hot breath of sleeping inebriated men. The room smells of sex. The room smells of bleach and dandelion. The room does not smell or rather you can not smell anything except maybe the traces of cocaine. The man is your friend he is naked, you wake to find his hard dick pressed into the small of your back or even the palm of your hand. On the couch your computer glows at you, porn flickers across the screen, a half eaten bananna crushed into the upholstery under your hip. It smells like coffee, sounds of breakfast making wake you, and your housemate whistles at you through your curtain, you whistle back. You waken to the alarm on your phone, it takes you two full minutes to locate the phone on the floor next to the bed but on his side, where you never put it, you reach across his fully clothed (blue jeans red flannel buttoned all the way up, white sneakers, shaved head) lithe body, his breath hot on your cheek smells of rosemary, he does not waken. The jackhammers wake you, they are jack hammering the street just outside the window, only 20 feet away, this window has white curtains, bay windows, there's a dark wood floor, a white defunct fireplace, a blond wood desk with a stool piled high with oversized magazines, clothing radiates out from the bed like a corona. Who's room is this. Your tank top is wet and your neck aches.
It is noon. It is 2pm. It is 8am. It is 9am.
You jerk awake, leaving sleep like you jumped from a bridge.
You ease out of it, like easing into the cold cold ocean, in jumps jabs, with breath held high in the chest.
Your mind wakes up but your body sleeps and you are stuck there, tipped over, bannana under you, pants down.
You are in the bathroom staring into your own red eyes before you know you're awake. your hands braced on either side of the small metal sink, your neck thrust forward your forhead just inches from the large plate mirror, water from the counter seeping into the crotch of your white jeans, the shower is running, you can smell the steam and mildew.
Your roomate comes into your room, not knowing there is a man there, and that he is rubbing your chest.
You roll off the couch.
The jackhammers do not stop and you can't find your wallet.
Your computer falls off the couch, the screen does not crack but it does flicker, the porn continues.
The flourescent light whines.
Your jacket is under the desk.
It is raining. It is sunny. There is silence, post apocolyptic. There is the chatter of the homeless only 6feet below your window like a conference of birds. It is windy. You can hear it, under the jack hammering, behind the kitchen sounds, after your housemate whistles just before the crash of your computer falling. You're tangled in sheets or just on top of them, a pillow under your arm, or on the floor. no pillow. You wake tired, in your clothes, with the light on and your shoes tied.
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