I’ve tasted death at the bottom of a punch bowl
synonymous with punch lines
bruised knuckles and hypertensive wrists
fingernails apologetic, but are never heard over the roar
of a bright metallic crimson
It reminds me hands are meant for building and destroying
holding and letting go
so tell me why you haven’t cut your fingers off
why haven’t you drank the water in the cup
that is either half full or half empty
when millions are dying of thirst
tell me how you’ve prayed to not become a statistic
tell me just how much of one you’ve become
there are no happy endings at the bottom of a scotch glass
no "I love you" as you are huddled mumbling insanity to the stranger in the mirror
tell me about the stranger in the mirror
there is no solemnity in solitude
only a feeling of the impending car crash of loneliness
I am tired of tasting these jokes that never make me laugh
but leave me bruised and remorseful
I am tired of hearing these ambiguous uncertainties of yours
I am tired of spiking my punch bowl and I hope you are aswell.