Number 3

 

 

He says he loves
the losers,
the only way he can love
himself.
He finds beauty
in a bottle, chalky
confetti poured
into a sweaty palm.

His veins pulsing,
he starts to frown,
looking for the number 3.
It's a white one…twenty
sixty-four over V.
Twenty sixty-four
over V. Did you take them?
I look at the floor, the bottle
he’s dropped. His empty hand
draws back.

When his fist hits my face,
the numbness
fades away,
the pain too fast to ease.
He doesn’t really love the losers,
just himself and number 3.