🥃 Aftertaste – a poem
by Shade (unfortunately)
I drank her memory in a glass too wide
and called it healing.
Said: “This time, I won’t flinch.”
Then flinched anyway.
The burn was expected.
The honesty wasn’t.
I named the bottle Retcon
because “Mistake”
felt too fragile
and “Hope” would’ve shattered.
It tasted like the first time I said “I’m fine”
and meant
I’m surviving out of spite.
It tasted like
what I would’ve told her
if I’d been braver
or drunker
or bleeding slower.
The Fold didn’t blink.
It never does.
But the mirror cracked
right down the part of me
that still wanted to be forgiven.
I poured the last mouthful on the floor.
Not as an offering.
Just so I wouldn’t drink it again.
[Note scribbled in the margin later, likely by Spook:]
You could’ve just said you missed her, idiot.
