I don't know where I'm going
and I'm not sure where I've been
With flowers dying all around me
in bread crumb trails that never end.

On Friday nights
the waitresses here
wear lingerie under their clothing,
and Juicy Couture
on their wrists

A taste of mystery,
a splash of desire,
and just a hint of something
you can't have,
as they bend over in their dresses
to make the drinks
more. tangible.

Christmas morning
and we got drunk on $3 red wine
given to me
entirely for free
from the creepy guy
who sits downstairs
with absolutely nothing on
underneath his trenchcoat

it was ******* freezing outside,
and I cried just a little bit
when you told me
we were out of butter.

With no bra
and a pair of XL red sweatpants
I went to the bodega on the corner
where the old man with too many fingers
never gives me the right change.

And that day I cried in my room
over what Christmas had become for me
and now I cry for that ****** apartment
four blocks from the G train
in the middle of Brooklyn, New York
and the fridge that never had
what we were looking for.

dark red nails
for nobody imparticular,
as I clink my fingernails
against the plastic cup this bar can’t afford

there are bugs in my draft beer,
that I swish around
and gobble up
hoping one of them is dangerous -
poisonous

we can’t all be so fortunate though.

They play old, slow country songs
on nights like Tonight
and the girls giggle
while their pink fingernails
cover their shiny teeth
when the boys grab them for a dance.

I’ve danced here a few times,
though I don’t cover my toothy grin
with the fingernails that hold my glass upright

I am uninhibited,
even in this small town
where skin is a form of toxicity
that makes me push my ******* just That
much closer together

So pretty, pretty, pretty
that’s all they have to say
the girl from New York City
shines oh so brigh-tuh-ly

“Pour me another drink,”
I say
as their polished nails fade away
and mine stay
dark and red
chipped and
clinking the plastic cups
that I can’t afford.