"I first found you in a thunderstorm. You were the raindrop that hit my eye and made me curse not bringing an umbrella. We met again in the bathroom of a seedy bar my friends had dragged me to. You were the graffiti pouting, ‘If it ends tonight, I hope my last words are your name.’ You were the hum of noise as I stared at my feet to not fall over. The buzz of voices and clinking glasses as I licked my lips and ordered another drink. You were the sunlight reddening my face on a sailboat. The roaring wave that threatened to tip the ship over. I dove into you and let my clothes hang limply on me. You were the grin that exploded on my face as I crawled onto shore, dripping wet and covered in seaweed. You are the salt spray stuck to my tongue. I’ve spent the last two years spitting you out. When I was six years old, I picked a bouquet of you in an abandoned lot. Your petals are still wilting on my dresser because I’m too sentimental to let you rot in a dump. You are every 4 a.m. phone call I make-the unbelievably loud ringing that threatens to wake my neighbors, the cold beep of a voicemail slapping me awake, the silence in my room after I hang up. You are my unanswered texts and nervous fingers lighting a cigarette. You are the wet curbs I waste afternoons on. You were the last sip before I went sober. You are the reason I’m afraid to get older. You are the black water I leave each party to stare at. Swallow me whole, I’m yours."