a lot of head space
over him. Recounting every touch,
hanging myself on a memory, swinging
in his clutch. Shrinking inside the silhouette,
smaller than a bead of sweat.

I wasted
so many days in a haze. Weeping
dewdrops, running down my face
in a trickle. Sour
as a pickle floating in a sea
of brine tangled on his fishing line.

I wasted
myself in a bottle of alcohol,
living in this gilded cage, and turning
out page after page every day.

I wasted
my youth
on things that were lies
not truth. Stuck as flies
to paper. This pain does not
ever taper.