Decomposition. The way I surfaced when you pulled on my collarbone with your mouth. Surfaced from the darkness that engulfed my brain, caused by shot after shot with you. I wasn’t aware of what was going on. Where were you? Hands everywhere, clutching and grabbing onto your smooth arms and flawless back. Knowing that it was going to be my last chance, knowing that this was it.

You didn’t want me. You wanted this feeling, the feeling of being wanted. I didn’t want you. I wanted that feeling, the feeling of being wanted.

You’re addicting. That’s what this is — an addiction. I don’t even like you. You’re an asshole, you only care about yourself, and you only go out of your way when it will benefit yourself. That is exactly what I don’t want, need, or care for. But winning your attention, in whatever manner — a quick text, a ride home, or something so much more — feels like the best high, the best victory. And then I come crashing down and I remember. I tell myself.

You don’t want me and I certainly don’t want you.

I remember climbing into bed with you. Literally, lifting myself up over the end of the bed and positioning myself between you and the wall. Was I expecting this sudden frenzy of hormones? No, I can’t say I was. Most of the night is lost. It remains somewhere with the tears shed and shots spilled that never stood a chance of being consumed.

You consumed me.

This is what it feels like to decompose, and to force myself to emerge from my own remains. To regrow, relearn, and to rethink every choice I’ve made when it came to you. This is what it must feel like to be a phoenix; the agony of combustion, the solace of restoration. Rebirth.

You deconstructed me, and left me alone to figure out which piece went where, and how I used to fit together.

Composition. The way I surfaced, sober, when I was finally able to take a breath without thinking only of you.