4am Ibuprofen

you taste like the white pills that disappear down my gagging throat at 4 o’clock in the morning,

the club kicked me out and the powdery texture that a dripping pint of water tried to wash away is mixing with raising bile and doner kebab.

i try to tell myself that they will make me feel better in the morning,

but my breath will still taste of onions and being crouched on the kitchen floor at 6am.

and i will chug black coffee thinking it’ll take the taste of you away,

but i will just be sweaty and dizzy.

i’ll never want to drink again until i forget what you taste of,

and then i’ll let another jagged swallow catch in my throat.

IBP

Categories: Poetry

Imy Brighty-Potts

I am the founder and editor of The Hysteria Collective, poetry writer, play lover and Philosophy and Politics graduate. Hobbies include wine, cheese and coffee. @imybrightypotts on Twitter. @imyiswriting on Instagram.

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