A few years ago I used to get off on
drinking from the bottle
torn fish nets
bar flies who told me
little baby you look so young
then the apocalypse came
we ran out of liquor
bare legs grew chaffed
I felt every year
sometimes it takes a storm
to see through your own bullshit
and coming out the other side
look around for those who
held on
attracted to a pinch of sleeze
nothing too clean
if you couldn’t understand me
what was the point?
I’d rather you had lines around your eyes
showing trace of unbearable moments
than a smooth face
acknowledgement of our plunge into pain and its returned baptism
I’d rather a portion of sickness in your blood
than clean without trace
we smoked ourselves until we were ash
stayed up all night breaking beds with rocking pelvises
my nipples the color of damson wine and indigo bites
you hurt me in ways holding rapture of delight
your tattoos stung my eyes with the fierceness of needles
pushed too deep
don’t hold me to promises I can’t keep
you whisper in your sleep
and I was told I’d die at 50 once
so time is ticking down
Fat Tuesday for the sober
a turquoise kitchen clock
in some distant home
where people make their beds and leave their
dirt beneath the surface
Sometimes, until we weathered through our equal shares of hardships in life, we may, never come to understand how hard it is, to survive in this world.
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