by Elsie Carmain

The bruise on my hip is getting
darker. I press with two fingers, think
of you three nights ago singing to me
dressed in sweat. If it ain’t you,
baby, if I ain’t got you. They say
the body remembers. I don’t know
how I got bruised the same way
you didn’t know what to order me
at the bar, broken vessels leaking
into soft tissue. These days it all goes
straight to my head—I still drink
anything you put in my hand but
won’t admit I like it, you still get me
talking til I can’t remember any of my
other friends’ names. I don’t think
I can follow you around anymore.
I threw up twice over the edge of
the bed before I could close my eyes.
The world was still spinning when
you crawled in and we slept like we
always have: never touching but
so, so close.

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Elsie Carmain is a writer & poet from Charleston, South Carolina. She enjoys staring at the ceiling and thinking of all the things she should’ve said.