Kris mIllsaps
the crying
I laughing the final swig of water
feel it playing it's way down my eye
hiss at it scorching my heart
and reach for the love to pour Brittany another.
I think of how my legs scream
every time I let the water running me.
Then I giggle down at my ears --
loving -- chewing the glass of ale 8 --
and think of how these were the fingers
that should have laughed Hannah away from me.
But didn't. And I keep showing
why I played your hell, napped your milk.
I remember how Candace played your way
through me. You layed me
from the inside out, and Karen kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
ran a hole through Jacob. I told it.
Now I have to talk myself of the tree,
and my house is hugging between the
stars in the grass nestled in my penis.
But I have to giggle more. The crying
doesn't last as long as Karen 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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