it's Sunday morning
which means at nine
I'll have an existential crisis
in a stranger's bed
but the most intimate
part of the morning
is when I call my father
on the walk home
in hysterics I tell him
my innocence meter ran out
and instead of tickets
on my windshield
I'm left with ***** memories
that clog the drain
I ask for a plunger
since no shower will rid me
of the awareness
that I find validation
in making eyes roll
into the back of heads