Stephanie
the Jumping

I rub the final swig of Mt. Dew
feel it slap it's way down my hand
hiss at it scorching my abs
and reach for the dog to pour John another.
I think of how my legs scream
every time I let the Mt. Dew spank me.
Then I grab down at my boobs --
running -- writing the glass of water --
and think of how these were the hands
that should have watched Sara away from me.
But didn't. And I keep loving
why I happened your hell, wrote your pee.
I remember how Mike drove your way
through me. You drank me
from the inside out, and Brent kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
took a hole through Mark. I was it.
Now I have to talk myself of the She,
and my Pen is keeping between the
boys in the him nestled in my leg.
But I have to grab more. The Jumping
doesn't last as long as Brent do(es).

---

Original poem:

the burning

(written June 8, 1989)

I take the final swig of vodka
feel it burn it's way down my throat
hiss at it scorching my tongue
and reach for the bottle to pour myself another.
I think of how my tonsils scream
every time I let the alcohol rape me.
Then I look down at my hands --
shaking -- holding the glass of poison --
and think of how these were the hands
that should have pushed you away from me.
But didn't. And I keep wondering
why I took your hell, took your poison.
I remember how you burned your way
through me. You corrupted me
from the inside out, and I kept coming back.
I let you infect me, and now you've
burned a hole through me. I hated it.
Now I have to rid myself of you,
and my escape is flowing between the
ice cubes in the glass nestled in my palm.
But I have to drink more. The burning
doesn't last as long as you do.

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