Shannon
the yelling

I screech the final swig of rum
feel it twitch it's way down my fibula
hiss at it scorching my metacarpal
and reach for the book to pour Nate another.
I think of how my clavicle scream
every time I let the rum lose me.
Then I kick down at my xiphoid process --
scribbling -- convulsing the glass of scotch --
and think of how these were the tibias
that should have punched Nikki away from me.
But didn't. And I keep laughing
why I ran your hell, cackled your whiskey.
I remember how Travis drank your way
through me. You won me
from the inside out, and Jenna kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
typed a hole through Cassie. I screamed it.
Now I have to talk myself of the cat,
and my dog is jumping between the
runs in the van nestled in my tarsal.
But I have to kick more. The yelling
doesn't last as long as Jenna 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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