There are many things I can say
about what I remember.
The rough sheets.
The large, round vanity mirror across the room.
The lace-trimmed curtains
that painted the light a cold blue
to set upon the bedroom walls.
The shoddy baseboard moulding,
separating and bloated with moisture.
The air, cold and cruel and always
smelling of damp pine needles.
The sounds of city life
not quite fifty feet from the door.
The scent of green tea and sticky rice
drifting in from the neighbouring suite.
I exhale heavily and close my eyes.
I am recounting facts again.
Tonight is about peeling back
a layer of skin and revealing what’s inside:
the guts along with the glory.
But I am hesitant,
unsure of what is too much too fast.
I’m still raw and unpolished,
and I don’t really understand
what details will set people’s teeth on edge.
I take a sip of wine
and hold it in my mouth,
letting the flavour coat my
tongue and cheeks.
I’m not as tipsy as I was last time.
Maybe the subject is too sobering.
Light peeks in
through the slatted window blinds
and I realize the chance
to prolong the inevitable.
For now, time is my ally.
I twist the lid back on the bottle
and fall into feather pillows
and cream linen sheets,
and am crooned to sleep
by my fuzzy best friend.