do me a favor
and clutch the string of pearls
that gently tightens around your unscraped adam’s apple.
you can’t do it, can you?
don’t worry.
when you come to,
the first thing you’ll think is
“the **** is that smell?”
you realize it’s you,
soaked through boxer briefs,
child-shamed again,
only this time, there is no excuse.
left leg still,
right one twitch,
you wonder when it is you’ll pick yourself up and get over this one.
how many hours and minutes it’ll take,
after all, the “day’s” just starting for you.
you must be the palest native this side of third,
because your personal mantra happens to be
“don’t put my burnt bacon skin out in direct sun.”
you ******* fern.
maybe on another night,
when you clutch the string of pearls,
in shock,
they’ll be there,
maybe they won’t melt so quickly this time.
