Three
*******
Months;
and I would have choked
myself to death with a baby's
umbilical chord, singing
the Ave Maria for you,
if you had just asked.
Two hundred and eight days
to be sober of the taste
of your ***** in my mouth.
Only falling off the wagon
once or twice, with a simple
beckoning. But, smacking
my face on the black top
each time, left a few bruises
and violet eyes, abrupt
reminders that there were reasons
I was riding away in the first place.
I think I'd still skin a live jackal
or stick my head in an alligator's
mouth for you. Proving
that you were wrong
about everything, except
my brake pads.