Cyndi
the fluttering

I sway the final swig of mercury
feel it dance it's way down my eye
hiss at it scorching my elbow
and reach for the bird to pour she another.
I think of how my toes scream
every time I let the mercury paint me.
Then I call down at my knees --
trying -- smoothing the glass of water --
and think of how these were the legs
that should have rained he away from me.
But didn't. And I keep learning
why I saw your hell, loved your juice.
I remember how he sang your way
through me. You ran me
from the inside out, and he kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
colored a hole through she. I drank it.
Now I have to talk myself of the grass,
and my sky is flying between the
walls in the ceiling nestled in my hand.
But I have to call more. The fluttering
doesn't last as long as he 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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