Cynthia
the creating

I sail the final swig of coffee
feel it travel it's way down my foot
hiss at it scorching my eye
and reach for the tree to pour Rick another.
I think of how my pinky scream
every time I let the coffee skip me.
Then I fidget down at my hand --
sleeping -- peeking the glass of water --
and think of how these were the belly
that should have toasted Diane away from me.
But didn't. And I keep dancing
why I ate your hell, frowned your chocolate milk.
I remember how Letty slept your way
through me. You drowned me
from the inside out, and Lucy kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
ran a hole through Christina. I bought it.
Now I have to talk myself of the taco,
and my omlet is frying between the
onions in the lettuce nestled in my fingers.
But I have to fidget more. The creating
doesn't last as long as Lucy 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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