November
       is killing me, again
pitch black ink
whiff of a stygian crypt
      off me write, again.

November
       is making me write, again
same cause, same dram
but a new soul- as pure as spit, foulest-
      drank all of it, again.

November
       is making me drink again
milk boxes of rotten denial on my porch
you rang the bell
      preyed on me, again.

November
      you came gently today
but I deserve more than flakes
of your pride
       masking your touch
with words of half true lies.