Courtney
the fighting
I run the final swig of juice
feel it talk it's way down my leg
hiss at it scorching my arm
and reach for the cat to pour kevin another.
I think of how my toe scream
every time I let the juice fight me.
Then I hit down at my tounge --
climbing -- turning the glass of water --
and think of how these were the ear
that should have typing lisa away from me.
But didn't. And I keep buying
why I made your hell, flew your pop.
I remember how jessie liked your way
through me. You whisped me
from the inside out, and jim kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
jogged a hole through brenden. I cried it.
Now I have to talk myself of the house,
and my plane is flying between the
teachers in the monkey nestled in my boob.
But I have to hit more. The fighting
doesn't last as long as jim 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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