I’m Sorry, Baby


I can be trash,
I know.
Like the page of notes fill in peoples
binders from last semester. Notes of science
and philosophy
and art
that they throw away to make room
for new information.
I have a tendency of pulling you in,
with my hands on your hips
my pelvis against yours,
looking you right in the eye
biting my lip out of nervousness,
horniness,
and happiness.
And maybe putting horniness
in-between nervousness
and happiness
is a bit trashy.
But I'm human,
baby,
and you're human,
baby,
and that's just nature.

I can be trash,
I know.
Like the wrappers of fast food
people leave in their cars
that pile up in their passenger seat.
I have a tendency of calling and texting you
way too much,
whenever I feel like it.
Which is usually late at night or
early in the morning for you
and I press send after looking that screen
real hard
not because what I'm about to say is important
but rather
because I'm drunk,
baby,
and you know I'm drunk,
baby,
so you don't answer me.
And I wake up the next morning
suddenly,
and I frantically slide my hand
all over my bed to find my phone
and see all the things
I could have said.

I can be trash,
I know.
Like the crushed up beer cans
that are scattered around my floor.
I want to bury my face in the back
of your head and smell your hair.
Covering your small hands with mine
while I drive sounds pretty good
too.
But instead,
I seem like an unkempt soul
to you.
If my soul was a shirt,
it would have stains of ketchup,
it would be faded baby blue,
wrinkled, way too small
for my body,
and it would smell musty,
and well,
I'm sorry,
baby.

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How stupid a man can be with a woman he loves if he is an alcoholic.