slip

I was in a bad place. I was in a bad place, I slipped down from the lower branches of a cherry tree and dug myself deeper into the white. Until I reached a place, under the petals, far removed from any light. And then I woke up.
A stone-solid 5 clung to my neck, the choking sensation easily explained by its weight; a 3 of steel had me around the waist, tying me to a signpost that screamed its message in bright pink letters: Restroom. Here we rest, here we wait.
The 3 wouldn't let me go and the 5 was dragging me down – until my elbows hit the white cold and it was stone-solid and innocent, and I relented, I got bent, I bent over and arched to accommodate to the grasp of the 3, so natural!, that pressed into my stomach. 

After, I rested, in the ladies room, a bitter taste in my mouth, my head heavy with a number, my body worn out and distorted by another. I washed my hands, not in innocence, but from the red stains on the white that would give me away, that would speak to the fact I gave in, I relented to the charms of red cherry sweetness that had precipitated my slip.