I am so tired, I need to get wasted
but I am pretty sure
any alcohol would curdle in my stomach —
the trashbag I keep under my
clothes, use my intestines as the
drawstrings. I get
anxious, my body is hot and heavy and
moist, everything slides off
my skin and never stops coming back.
I need to get wasted
but sometimes it feels as if everyone I
know is an alcoholic — mother,
sister, uncle, dad. It could happen
to me
and maybe I would finally be happy if
I always had something to
use to drown my body.
Having blood is not enough,
it won’t even stay under my skin. I
am so awake, I could drink
a river
and then another and another
and all my nerves would still feel open.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
I am so tired, I need to get wasted
but I am pretty sure
any alcohol would curdle in my stomach —
the trashbag I keep under my
clothes, use my intestines as the
drawstrings. I get
anxious, my body is hot and heavy and
moist, everything slides off
my skin and never stops coming back.
I need to get wasted
but sometimes it feels as if everyone I
know is an alcoholic — mother,
sister, uncle, dad. It could happen
to me
and maybe I would finally be happy if
I always had something to
use to drown my body.
Having blood is not enough,
it won’t even stay under my skin. I
am so awake, I could drink
a river
and then another and another
and all my nerves would still feel open.
This is a miserable poem, I may come back and edit later. Sometimes I just have to write, regardless of whether it sounds like **** or not. (Sometimes when I feel like **** I have to make poems that sound like ****
