Lauren
the screaming
I eat the final swig of maple syrup
feel it brush it's way down my toenail
hiss at it scorching my eyeball
and reach for the ping pong table to pour Lauren another.
I think of how my boobs scream
every time I let the maple syrup smack me.
Then I sex down at my fingers --
macking -- sleeping the glass of dishwasher detergent --
and think of how these were the ears
that should have sped Phil away from me.
But didn't. And I keep scratching
why I ripped your hell, swore your gas.
I remember how Alex tripped your way
through me. You skipped me
from the inside out, and Sunni kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
raped a hole through Keegan. I molested it.
Now I have to talk myself of the paddle,
and my jump rope is singing between the
bananas in the cigarette nestled in my funny bone.
But I have to sex more. The screaming
doesn't last as long as Sunni 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...