When That Ended

I'm trying to place it.

A bathroom tile. White.

Someone's laugh, too loud,

the kind that sounds like they're

proving something.

There was a taste.

I don't remember the drink,

just the taste—

something sweet and wrong,

like fruit that's been sitting too long,

and my body remembers it

even though my mind can't catch up.

There was a couch.

There was a moment when I knew

I'd made a mistake

but didn't stop anyway,

kept reaching for the next one,

kept trying to feel less

by feeling more.

And then—nothing clear.

Just fragments.

A car ride.

Streetlights.

Someone's hand on my back.

The thing is, I don't remember

when I stopped.

I just know that one day

I realized I hadn't done it in months,

hadn't wanted to,

and I couldn't trace back

to the moment it changed,

couldn't point to a specific night

and say: after this, something shifted.

It just did.

And now I'm the person

who says no,

who sits in someone's apartment

while everyone else is loose

and flushed,

and I'm fine with it,

mostly fine,

except for the part of me

that sometimes misses

the taste of something sweet and wrong,

the permission to blur,

the feeling of being less accountable

for my own edges.

My friend asked if I wanted to go out.

I said no.

And I meant it.

I think I meant it.