kiran
the s
I s the final swig of s
feel it s it's way down my s
hiss at it scorching my s
and reach for the s to pour s another.
I think of how my s scream
every time I let the s s me.
Then I s down at my s --
s -- s the glass of s --
and think of how these were the s
that should have s s away from me.
But didn't. And I keep s
why I s your hell, s your s.
I remember how s s your way
through me. You s me
from the inside out, and s kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
s a hole through s. I s it.
Now I have to talk myself of the s,
and my s is s between the
s in the s nestled in my s.
But I have to s more. The s
doesn't last as long as s 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.
Problems with this page? Then deal with it...