kara
the handling

I touch the final swig of pop
feel it sing it's way down my hand
hiss at it scorching my feet
and reach for the Journey to pour andrew another.
I think of how my lips scream
every time I let the pop sat me.
Then I talk down at my face --
sleeping -- kissing the glass of gas --
and think of how these were the nose
that should have missed weston away from me.
But didn't. And I keep breathing
why I liked your hell, wrote your candy.
I remember how ashlyn had your way
through me. You looked me
from the inside out, and riley kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
sat a hole through jacy. I begged it.
Now I have to talk myself of the phone,
and my dog is licking between the
cats in the ipod nestled in my knee.
But I have to talk more. The handling
doesn't last as long as riley 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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