I wanna get drunk
Belligerently drunk
To the point where
I can't tell
The difference between
The lie on your lips
And the truth in your eyes

I would like to say that i am one of those girls

who drink ***** shooters because ‘enough shots feels like love’

but sadly

i am one of those girls

who like to drink

whiskey

until my own miserable

lack of self worth and resentment slithers up out of my throat

but there are men who can smell

this on my skin

like a desperate pheromone calling

to them

saying ‘lovemeusememakemefeelworththy’

but i have a problem knowing the difference between

love and worth and the desperate scrambling of hands

on scalps and legs

because i love my ******* self

and have so much worth

that when men are repelled by my goddess

strength in my shoulders

and the fire on my tongue

i sink into this pit

and wonder why

i am not wanted

and the difference between worth

and being able to look into your own eyes

without seeing a monster

for ten seconds

is terrifying

and maybe that’s why i shatter mirrors

and carve tally marks into my own

leg

because the monster in me isn’t visible

on the outside

so i let her out and let her

cough and sputter

and cling to people

and let her whisper in their ears

all the words i hate to say

and when i drink

she comes out to play

but she still winks at me when i am sober

and like the gods of old i only exist

when i am being prayed to

but the faith in me is flickering out behind the eyes of men

The Rain falls warm.
It's humid and the shirt
sticks to my *******.
How much has fallen
into my collective bucket
during the pass hour
Of heavy monsoon rain?

I gulp chunks
to replace water
in this futile work cycle.
Adiabatic landscaping
in a stifling heat,
within some complex
feed-forward loop.

The cigarette burns
beneath a protective dome,
my cupped hand.
Particulates drift away into
the hazy mist, embedding
itself in breath,
and choking congested,
fluid-filled lungs.

I watch a tiny display
showing small spiking memes
feeding forward to what?
Will it be an apocalyptic
firing storm  or a recognition
gestalt, inhibitory spikes
triggering attenuation.

I drink again the rain.
Can I supervise Win-Lose
games? Am I learning
some wrong algorithm
while drunk on heavy water,
in Futile cycles?

With my open hand
I take Virgil's lead
into our Gradient descent,
urging him on, afraid
our alpha steps are too
small, and the time too
short. There is a constant
fear of being trapped
in some eternal,
local minimal.