Christian
the speeding

I fdd the final swig of ff
feel it fdfd it's way down my arm
hiss at it scorching my dfd
and reach for the dfdf to pour fdf another.
I think of how my dfdf scream
every time I let the ff fddf me.
Then I dfdf down at my df --
dfe -- df the glass of effg --
and think of how these were the dfd
that should have fdfe ddf away from me.
But didn't. And I keep dfdf
why I dfdf your hell, e your dfdf.
I remember how dffdf dfdfdf your way
through me. You dfdf me
from the inside out, and fddff kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
dfdf a hole through dffd. I dffd it.
Now I have to talk myself of the dffdf,
and my fdf is dffd between the
fddffd in the fdf nestled in my fd.
But I have to dfdf more. The speeding
doesn't last as long as fddff 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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