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Sober

#VocalNPM

By Bianca WargoPublished 5 years ago 2 min read
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This poem was a really hard one to write the last section for. I'd found the first two parts on one of my online accounts the other day and, knowing who it's about and what really happened, I decided to add to the original two sections I'd written almost two years ago now. The shift in thought is the particular focus I had in mind when writing this–a sort of growing up and moving on, realizing that yes, he could have chosen not to do what he did, but some choices I made gave him that opportunity to begin with. In some ways that very last line represents that. Reading it in context, I do mean to convey that he was sober at the time, but I also mean that I sobered up from the sort of daydream-like feelings I convinced myself I had at the time.

i.

Different

from the others;

eyes with

different colors,

not as close, broken, similar,

not

my

typical

type.

Adjustments to be made

because this is so–new to me.

I do not control nor in my hand do i hold

his heart his will, himself–

and that’s completely ok.

ii.

We didn’t take much, time

but that’s what makes it

exciting,

enticing,

energetic,

and in some ways,

genuine.

He did not know of the baggage

I owned or

the chains here that I carry.

I did not know of the chains

he broke or

the rocks atop his chest.

Still,

we enjoyed each other, one another, we and all our sweet surrender.

iii.

But it was ruined

all too quickly.

I didn’t want to.

He did it anyway

he didn’t care.

He pushed himself on me–

–I tried to push him off

but then he did it–and I was frozen.

I wished so badly that I could take it all back.

–the feelings I felt,

–going out with him at all

…And to think I went back to him at all

–didn’t speak up

or use the tongue my mother gave me.

–didn’t leave him

didn’t think it’d matter.

But then came a party days later.

I went–and how stupid that was.

Drunk, alone in a crowded room.

The image isn’t all there–only a snapshot

of the second time.

Same guy, different scene, different situation.

All that’s in my head is him taking off my

shorts.

Next I remember is the inside of the toilet I bent over later, puking.

And what’s worse?

He was sober.

Stone cold sober.

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Bianca Wargo

Psychology and English Writing double major at Kean U

1 Thessalonians 4:3-8

Leaving my old writing up to go back sometimes and see how God's changed me to be better.

PODCAST: Gold Scars (available on Spotify & Anchor)

insta/TikTok: @biancawargo

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