Hangover

The first time he told you
it wasn’t a parking ticket,
he chose his words carefully,
stressing the syllables
turning a story around,
as you both were
lying in his bed.

That’s it.
Instigator, you had to ask:
So you didn’t hit her?

Handing you a whiskey with a splash of coke,
he told you she was crazy, and just upset that he wanted to
leave her, how she lied when the police
knocked on his door. 

Sipping through a curly purple plastic straw,
you gestured the cup to him
and leaned a little too far into his shoulder,
spilling the drink onto his chest hair.

Both of you stayed in the bed
until five in the morning, licking
spilled alcohol, giggling at a movie
you had watched together at least
thirteen times that week.

Telling tales you promised to take to your grave,
you wanted this until you reached your grave,
skeletal hands mended together with mold and rot,
six-feet under, maggots would dig through the decay of two.
Remember when you beat him
in pool at that bar on Westheimer?
Sinking that eight ball in, smugly
he smirked, arms crossed—
he’s so competitive. 

But he did hit her.

Author: Liz Hardaway

Sometimes you'll find me blissfully reading a Rolling Stone's profile on Post Malone next to a pumpkin-spice candle, sometimes you'll find me biting my nails trying to meet deadline. Life's a coin-toss.

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