With a cigarette hanging between my fingers
The perfume of liquor on my lips
I think to myself that maybe
I could've been more than this

I laid my mattress in
the living-room. And camped out
every day with the shades pulled
down to block out the light

from outside. I ate and ate until
my weight was one-hundred and
seventy-five. I had just miscarried my
baby girl. Her name would have been

Sarah if she came into this world. But
she never made it to her May birthday –
She was taken in a very sober October
when the colors of the leaves shined against

my pale face and barren waist. We died
the same way, taken before we could
consummate, like I did with Jim. And after we had
our fling he died too. Then I turned full-on to

the bottle. My son never made it home
from the hospital. It was too much to bear on anyone –
and this old woman is no longer young. But still
depressed, spending her time in a cold basement

video-taping ******* – *******, ***
and ***** for money. Her poems are just as her
baby girl, son and Jim –
all brain dead. No light has been shed on a one –
if it doesn’t involve a **** or tongue

Heaven cast me aside,
While hell welcomed me with open arms.

are you depressed?
nope i'm just stressed.
are you sad?
no, why do you ask?

are you okay?
what am i supposed to say,
do i tell them the truth?
or should i hide
behind the lie
and say that "i'm fine"?