I like when I get dizzy and feel like talking about my misery after drinking. I can admit I am suicidal and laugh about it. Sometimes I try to crawl, just to prove to myself I am helpless and cannot move properly. One night, after losing your tolerance for my poor behavior, you smacked me. The shadow of my hair tossing to the side looked like bat wings exploding.
“That’s okay.” I said. “I won’t recall your abuse in the morning, so I will not be smart enough to leave you.”
I’d be struck again until the alcohol taste in my mouth disappeared and my soul went to sleep. Maybe I like all types of powerlessness, even if it means someone I love serving it to me in cruel manners.
about the author:
Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. She also enjoys photography. Her work has appeared in Juked, Cease Cows, Birds We Piled Loosely and others. She sometimes talks to ghosts when she’s bored, or to other scary creatures, including herself.