Fool's Gold: Twenty at Twenty-five.

I was rolling around
on tie-dye sheets
in a tiny expensive room
dimmed by drawn shades.
Strings of Christmas lights
my mother had sent with me
for my foray into college life
tried their hardest not to
shake their heads in shame.
It was easy to ignore
as other issues usually took prevalence:
nine-times-out-of-ten I was
hungover or still drunk from
naively sweet whiskey sours
and I had trouble keeping food down.
The smell of bourbon
still turns my stomach
five years later.

The familiar "cha-ching" sound of
a cash register that meant she'd signed on--
I was waiting for that noise
as much as I was dreading it.
Regardless, I'd perk up.
Maybe she'd reconsidered.
Maybe she'd say hello, ask how I was.
Maybe I could put up a new pathetic away message
to punish her with the guilt that only I deserved.

A good thirty pounds packed
themselves on between
the desperate months of
October and January of that year.
Various victims between then and now
would see me in different weight classes.
Gone was the sleek seventeen-year-old.
The stretch marks they'd find
later on under the hair
came from that period;
the scars under the tattoos--
yeah, those too.
I'm thankful there aren't many pictures.
Part of the reason
I have yet to own a camera.
Hoping that might change.
I'm ready.

When that Stones song came on at a bar
I'd down my drink and buy another
even though Mick got her name slightly wrong.
We never tried. I never tried.
I am this time.
Swear.

And truth be told
I forget what she smells like.
Guess that means it's finally over.

There's a new standard in town
and I know she's here to stay.

Hallelujah.
Praise the lord.
Pass the ammunition.