hands in mouths

the last time i was curled up on this bed, amphetamines were shaking my system and i was praying to a god i didn't believe in to kill me just to cut short the agony. tonight, i kiss my cat on the head and smile. the warmth of four people tucked into a bed for one still lingers on my arms. my knees tell me stories of bathroom tiles and my fingertips whisper tales of pharynges, but the rest of my muscles ache with quiet memories of dancing and long walks. a street sign lays beside a bed somewhere, next to shivering bodies trying to forget the poison voluntarily poured into them, and i decide i don't need to see the sun rise to feel complete.