It only takes one.
It always starts as just one.
That’s the lubricant,
the grease that smooths the transition
to number two.
Two was a good time.
Two won’t leave you feeling bad or acting out.
You can have just two.
But then there’s three.
Three wasn’t so much a choice.
It was a calling,
a conch shell begging to be heard.
And once you find the source,
there’s four, waiting for you.
Four leads to five and now you’re in trouble.
Six and seven come just as quick,
and now you’ve lost track.
It goes black.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The room is spinning as you lay your head down.
“How did I make it to my bed?
I hope no one got hurt.
I can’t keep doing this.
I can’t.”
Or maybe, just one.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
