Megan
the riding

I run the final swig of milk
feel it walk it's way down my boob
hiss at it scorching my butt
and reach for the chair to pour Mitchell another.
I think of how my arms scream
every time I let the milk sing me.
Then I skip down at my legs --
sniffling -- coughing the glass of powerade --
and think of how these were the shoulders
that should have walked Morgan away from me.
But didn't. And I keep pooping
why I ran your hell, sang your gatorade.
I remember how Jordan ran your way
through me. You wore me
from the inside out, and Moriah kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
ran a hole through Jamie Preston. I sang it.
Now I have to talk myself of the kleenex,
and my mouse is typing between the
dogs in the cat nestled in my neck.
But I have to skip more. The riding
doesn't last as long as Moriah 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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