cg
the fg

I l%27%27kl%27kl%27%27 the final swig of xcfg
feel it l%27ll%27 it's way down my cfh
hiss at it scorching my l%27
and reach for the cfh to pour %27kl%27 another.
I think of how my cfh scream
every time I let the xcfg k%3B me.
Then I hjhgjj down at my cfh --
sggj -- jkl.%2F%3B the glass of %3B --
and think of how these were the rt
that should have mk%3Bl gfg away from me.
But didn't. And I keep lk%27
why I g your hell, l%27l%27 your dfttrtf.
I remember how l%27l rg your way
through me. You l%27 me
from the inside out, and ftdtcg kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
kl%27%2Cbnkghjh a hole through ggcfgc. I hh it.
Now I have to talk myself of the hjhg,
and my vnv is jhjh between the
jjgj in the hjhj nestled in my gjgj.
But I have to hjhgjj more. The fg
doesn't last as long as ftdtcg 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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