Nineteen And Lost Poem by Chase Gagnon

It's morning and still dark
the world is a world away, dreaming
and the smell of last night's rain lingers
like a ghost, trying to tell me something
but I'm not a believer.
I haven't dreamed in years
and I think I might be hungover.
This is too real,
I woke up on the floor
and stared into the darkness under my bed
where the monsters once lurked,
they were slayed by the sword of depression
some time ago,
when I stopped caring if they would get me.
Now the only thing under this bed
are my demons
empty liquor bottles, cigarette butts,
and used condoms —
and they don't even scare me anymore.