I'm laying on my bed who looks down on me.
It's disappointed in me.
I am, too.
My brain groans as we try to remember what happened that night.
My stomach is worn out
and it gasps like jogging lungs.
My eyes are straight, but wander.
My brain gives up its task
and I compromise with my body
that last night will never happen twice.

I hear voices in the kitchen
my ears scream with the migraine.
They're speaking of me.
One is glad I'm alive.
I am, too.
All the others are disappointed in me.
Last night will never happen twice.

Finally, I try to eat again.
In stead of half,
this time,
I ask for fourths.
I know I won't be able to handle the lot of halves.
My stomach is still traumatized.
Last night will never happen twice.