Ms. Bratton%27s Class
the spraying

I smack the final swig of acid
feel it run it's way down my lungs
hiss at it scorching my heart
and reach for the chicken to pour Miss Kelley another.
I think of how my limb scream
every time I let the acid thinking me.
Then I fly down at my brain --
growing -- spitting the glass of juice --
and think of how these were the hand
that should have smashed Cube away from me.
But didn't. And I keep picking
why I fired your hell, crashed your milk.
I remember how Hannah ate your way
through me. You brushed me
from the inside out, and Brady kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
flossed a hole through Miss Bratton. I grew it.
Now I have to talk myself of the horse,
and my cow is pulling between the
sheep in the Mrs. Hudson nestled in my nose.
But I have to fly more. The spraying
doesn't last as long as Brady 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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