Amber
the dying

I run the final swig of blood
feel it die it's way down my arm
hiss at it scorching my leg
and reach for the worm to pour me another.
I think of how my fingers scream
every time I let the blood fall me.
Then I warle down at my toes and eyes --
whining -- screaming the glass of snot --
and think of how these were the ears and feet
that should have analyzing you away from me.
But didn't. And I keep trying
why I loved your hell, learned your tears.
I remember how him went your way
through me. You wore me
from the inside out, and she kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
died a hole through he. I lived it.
Now I have to talk myself of the cat,
and my ball is bouncing between the
spiders in the shoe nestled in my bones.
But I have to warle more. The dying
doesn't last as long as she 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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