I don't remember
the last time I came
crushed down by the blanket
and the sweaty body
with the imprint of my face
on the saliva-spotted pillow
and wet red opening between my legs
and post-coital cigarette between the lines
and nothing but the clothes
between us.
I don't remember
the last time I drank
numbed by the illicit taste
and the shred of glass
with the cracked bottle
in my cracked blood-leaking fist
and clumps of digested food on my shoes
and promise of a hungover on the calendar sheet
and nothing but the only glass
on my table.
I don't remember
the last time I took a break
got run over by the car
and bones ground
with my well-tailored skin
rubbed into the asphalt
and my invisible broken crutches from my therapist
and my monochrome depression oozing from the wounds
and my acidic psychosis from the concrete jungle
I've been nurtured in.
I still do remember
my peanut butter preferences
my Social Security Number
my deepest darkest secrets
(that are actually neither deep, nor dark).
But what I can't, yet want remember —
the spring. My boyfriend who died in 2008. My breath.