Tinder Drummer Boy

there is a small, missing chunk of skin
from my right ear that makes me
feel sorted like a meandering cattle.

i remember little, besides
the aftermath. lying underage
we met at your neighborhood bar
and i followed you drunken, half-witted
home to your punk rock basement
where you played drums
and the whole world
spun like a disco.

this was five years ago,
but i don’t forget
how i awoke: bloodless in heart,
earring ripped from cartilage,
confused where i am,
confused who he is,
confused how to find my train home,
a soul of a lost girl
flapping carelessly in the wind.

a dirty sheet in the center
of a metropolis.

from an unknown DC neighborhood,
i walked home, stopping halfway
to draw a sketch of drumsticks
in an otherwise empty notebook,
mourning a rhythm
much stronger than words–

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