I got very drunk last night and I remember nothing but me crying to my grandmother saying he raped me. I slept in my own puke. I walked in yelling with liquor in hand saying I'm not drunk and this isn't liquor. Now it's the next day and I'm tired, drained, depressed, sick and lonely. I'll do it again as soon as I get paid and buy more liquor. My life has no meaning, at least no meaning I have found yet. Rain by Beatrice goldsmith is a good poem, and I know that because I'm reading new poetry to make myself feel less hopeless. That's all I can say right now.
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11-14-18
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