The first day was an open road, dewy cheeked and laughing. You licked the salt of my neck and I drank from your mouth. Cup after cup did nothing but make me thirstier. I danced with them all, they danced with me. There we were, young and immortal, naked under the moon.


The third day came with a vague throbbing sensation that they wanted you more than I did. That I could not truly love anything, not even myself. You were all just pretty birds in the cages I kept in my chest. You offered me sweet wine, I refused, only to grit my teeth when you gave it to someone else.


The seventh day was full of teeth, soft embraces and my leg hanging from the mattress. Others came to stroke my forehead and fill me with laughter and liquor. No one tells you that after the fifth day tears come easily, and the habit of crying never really leaves you after that.


When it was all over I ached. Not just my limbs, but to the tip of my hair, my eyes, my tongue and heart. I don’t know when you left, but for what it’s worth you saw me as I am. A wide eyed, grinning princess surrounded by bottles; broken ambitions and twisting limbs. 



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8 responses to “Bacchanalia

  1. I like this. (Puts me in the mood of I Need Some Fine Wine and You, You Need to Be Nicer)

  2. But you never came to one of my bacchanalias…

  3. You’re absolutely right… how drunk were we?

    Waaaait… I’m starting to remember… yeah… someone basically walked in on me fucking that year. That was fun.

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