Torture in Neon

It hits me thick as I walk through the door;

The stink of cigarettes and weed and beer.

The music, loud and tasteless, we abhor.

There is no rhyme or soul or reason here.

In all the damp confusion, you stand still;

A silhouette in neon by the door.

My stomach drops, my throat shuts, I feel ill.

It's clear we both know what we came here for.

I might black out just to forget your face;

Go numb with wishing we had never touched.

I pray that when I'm older I find grace,

And your soft voice won't have to hurt so much.

There is no way to ask my young self why;

No pain like slowly drowning in July.