Monique Morgan
the going

I run the final swig of gin
feel it melt it's way down my butt
hiss at it scorching my lips
and reach for the house to pour clinton another.
I think of how my finger scream
every time I let the gin popping me.
Then I eat down at my knee --
screaming -- studying the glass of milk --
and think of how these were the nose
that should have lasted mike away from me.
But didn't. And I keep testing
why I killed your hell, lost your pee.
I remember how mike broke your way
through me. You licked me
from the inside out, and sammi kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
painted a hole through brad. I copied it.
Now I have to talk myself of the car,
and my fence is skipping between the
girls in the pot nestled in my arm.
But I have to eat more. The going
doesn't last as long as sammi 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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