The nights I would lock myself in the bathroom
I made a covenant with the tiles
Sealed with my liquid pain.
You were gone, usually.
A pub, a store, maybe a whore
Getting drunk with the spirits
While I tried to find God by carving patterns on my arm
Except I never found him.
I only ever heard the sadness drumming against my throat.
Until you would come back.
Then, it was your voice.
Loud, lunacy raging
And I would pray to the tiles that you would find
Your way to the bed or floor outside the door.

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