Before I Found Acceptance

Metallic taste on the inside of my lip.
Bleeding gums a possibility, nose bleed
earlier in the day and finger sucked
to cleanse the caked-on blood. Basically,
it is bitter, iron-based, crumpled tin
foil against my teeth. It leaves a head
ache, sharp pinpoint of pain at the temple
near the small pink scratch on my right
eyelid. I don't know where that came
from either: a relapse drunken fall
against a baseboard; a strange man's
dog lurching up to the excitement of a new
face at 2am after mediocre karaoke ends
with the microphone smacking a cement floor.
It could have been my own nail, scrubbing
gold metallic shadow from blotched hungover
lids. The unknowing is what scares me.
The emptiness of my memory like a leather
album empty of all its photographs,
life moments captured in stand-still,
smiles and beaches and carousels torn
into tiny, coarse-edged pieces and dropped
from my boyfriend's pained, red hands
into an Albertson's labeled paper sack
and tossed into the recycling bin like
wet green wood is tossed behind the metal
barrier into fire. It will not burn. It will
not be completely lost. It will linger
unscathed in neon orange heat. It will linger
in the memory even with attempts at being destroyed.