Take me, Satan, for I have sinned.
I fell down on the job, fell down on my sword
but with no real purpose or cause. A martyr
for the sake of martyrdom is as useful as a
parka in Mexico.

Slit my wrists with a freeform kiss.
Cracked teeth, cracked skull, saltine crackers.
Counting calories, skipping meals.  
Did it hurt to ascend from hell, and
how did you wash away
the grime?

I want to believe that you love me
but the world is unkind.
I need a shot of reassurance like a shot of
eighteen year old scotch, neat.

Rapid fire rejection, thunderstorms
of doubt. **** me with a smile. Rebuild
my psyche, brick by brick. Mortar me,
babe, and I'll adore you for it.

Melt into my mind and live there,
the mice who currently occupy
the quarters are hungry for
touch.

Ride my metaphor like
a throbbing **** longing for
release; please, release me.

I feel the pressure to create bearing down on my skull like a claw hammer. I am not a conquest. And no, I will not be your conquest (yes, you). I am me: flawed and imperfect but somehow still here. Fighting through the misery with Marlboros and earl grey. Bone broke, broken bones; a metaphor for broken imagery, a torn imagination soaked in ***** and blood. Would you still love me if I threw myself down a flight of stairs? Two for one pain, buy one dose, get one free. Ragged breathing, lace collars, four inch pumps and a plastered on lipstick smile.

If I'm not the problem, there is no solution.* Destiny disrupted by rusted liquor lust. Liquidated terror is the soup du jour. Stale coffee exacerbates the problem. Relapse hangs overhead like a grotesque mobile of alcoholic death. There's glitter in their eyes and a bottle of pills in their pocket. Smoking as self care. I want her to carve her love into my clavicle; I'm dangling by a thin gold chain.

My preteen years were
filled with white zinfandel
dreams and a collage
of wood panelling.

Broken thoughts become
ninety proof lies; drink-
don't think.

Diet Coke cans filled
with wine, hiding from
myself but mostly from
my grandmother

I wanted to conceal my
role as the family ****-up
for as long as possible
but then
I hit a wall.

Drinking is a constant love affair,
I keep coming back like a battered wife
because I can't get a grip on my
battered life.

Living for the burn
that spread its legs all
the way down my throat.

You're going to die, they say.
Maybe one day,
I'll believe them.

Alcoholism consumes, is a broken
Love affair that takes everything from you; a
Codependent partner that
Only cares about
Herself. And we stay her slave until we're able to
Open our eyes; realize that everything she ever whispered in our ears was a
L**ie.

Why are we so concerned
with whether the glass is half
empty or half full
instead of being grateful that
somehow, something, somewhere
out there, gave us a glass?

Consent is ****. Reality is not.

He picked me up from the Taco Bell, hot summer
day. Played music in the car, but denied me air. “It wastes gas.”
The man I gave my virginity to made me sweat it out on the way to do so.

His pasty torso was covered in unfinished tattoos,
a lifetime reminder of unfinished business. “Would you
like to see my rabbit?” he asked, and I thought that
rabbit was a euphemism for ***** but it wasn’t. He pulled
out a literal white rabbit, and placed it in my hands. The
soft fur burned with a sense of impending doom; of
the contract I’d foolishly signed in my mind. “His name is lucky.”

But I wasn’t. He ****** me hard against his
bed frame while I stared up at a reproduction of a Wicked
poster his fiancé had painted, but not before singing me
an original song- to make you cringe a little harder- off key.
I didn’t know how to give a *******, so I let him split me
in half.  And then I suited up in my crisp white shirt, slipped
on my black bow tie, and served people popcorn for seven hours.