The image in my head is raw chicken and it brings up memories from over a decade ago. Memories of Jack Daniels shots and how my ex told me that he used to love me as he came, then went downstairs to play pool. I remember the green condom sliding onto my parents bed, throwing it away, and sitting on the toilet with a mirror, wailing and slicing cuts into my my face because at that moment I couldn't see myself as ugly and I knew I was supposed to be. So bleeding ugly, I went downstairs and cooked chicken on the indoor grill for my best friend and my ex, because it was my best friend's birthday. I still can see the pink meat, the noodles, tossed salad and cresent rolls. We were silent at the table, my head buzzing, silverware clinking. I took a bottle of Vivarin, rode to a show--Ween. I sat on the floor, knee height, vomited on shoes as the mosh pit was on top of me. Outside of the club and hugging the curb, I felt the speedy tremors, my stomach wrenching, the coolness of the concrete against my cheek. Later that night, I remember sitting on the floor of my bedroom rocking myself sane and sober. I thought of my best friend upstairs with her boyfriend, how they were celebrating her birthday, how selfish I was for losing my shit when it was supposed to be a night about her. I fill in memories and conversations from that day, but what really sticks is the condom sliding out of me, the pink chicken and the realization of how many ways I tried to make myself whole.