tracing my spine with wine
I can imagine a perfect line, inside
opening my throat, a red river rushes
through my drunken esophagus,
parellel to the column of vertebrae
keeping these tight shoulders of mine
off the sticky floor
I sigh in response to,
this floor,
offering me a minute of rest
I wont succumb
to the sweet hum, of apathy
rejecting the proposal to waste more time
with effort I stand tall
preserving the upward position of my skull
emotions I didn't mean to see,
surfacing now
a hot mess, with flushed cheeks
I've become
my spine at times feels weak
a false strength calls out
offering a sense of cheap stability
This time, I refuse