Dear Mr. Smith
the sobbing
I throw the final swig of tears
feel it drink it's way down my heart
hiss at it scorching my eyes
and reach for the letter to pour ex lover another.
I think of how my heart strings scream
every time I let the tears break me.
Then I answer down at my fingers --
screaming -- leaving the glass of blood --
and think of how these were the hands
that should have killed the one left behind away from me.
But didn't. And I keep hurting
why I left your hell, needed your sweat.
I remember how shot glass drank your way
through me. You fell me
from the inside out, and inebriation kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
looked a hole through waitress. I asphixiated it.
Now I have to talk myself of the tissue,
and my scar is crying between the
wounds in the notebook nestled in my nape.
But I have to answer more. The sobbing
doesn't last as long as inebriation 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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