vodka soaked apology

muse; ex boyfriends who have called me at 3am and yelled at me with alcohol lacing their cold lips and soaking their lungs.

you call me at 3am. your hands are shaking and your breath is fast. you speak my name with your purple lips that are chattering profusely. you're sobbing, muttering incomprehensible words that sound coated with hatred and sadness. you plead for me to come back home. to sleep in your bruised, bleeding arms. to be able to run your rough fingers through my matted hair. you want to kiss me and intoxicate me with the vodka on your breath. you want me to stay.

you reek of unwashed hair and desperation and five glasses of whiskey. all you can say is half-assed "I love you's" and "I'm sorry's" and how you never meant a word you said, and how am I supposed to believe you when your lungs are coated with tequila and mucus and the spit of a stoned bitch you met in an alleyway?

your voice raises as you unleash a litany of petty insults that are supposed to sting me. you call me a whore, you tell me that you never loved me, that I'm not worth your time and that I never was. you scream between sobs and coughs and hiccups and when you're finished; you vomit. you're a fucking mess. your bed is soaked with tears. your hands are covered in spit and snot and semen and your only friend is the bottle of pills by your bedside and the liquor that chases them down.

your stomach is a fiery pit that is spewing venom and lava and false accusations, but they fall upon deaf ears, because after you called me a whore, I stopped listening. you're venting and screaming my name, and I'm sure you're ready to fucking explode, but my head is throbbing and the butterflies in my chest are blindly running into the walls of a beaten rib cage; fearing that your pointy teeth will rip and chew their fragile wings apart.

your rib cage is shattered, and your heart is swollen from all of the tears and the drugs that slowly sleep into your bloodstream. you're shaking, and there are dangerously sharp pine needles stabbing at the inside of your eyelids.

nearly an hour has passed, but you’re growing sleepy. your voice breaks and your breath catches, but you decide to speak anyways. you tell me you’re sorry, that you’re just drunk, that I’m the best thing to ever happen to you, and with one final breath, you whisper out a goodnight and retired back to your cold, lonely bed.