I am not a good person.  I will not be good,
cannot ever be good, she who bleeds
midnight scribbles to an alcohol-stained notebook.  

I once had a dream
my greedy mouth

ate cement from a soft-serve machine.  

It cracked down my throat.  

I held jagged mirror pieces in my clenched fist.  

It squeezed blood from my hands and I ate that too.