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March 9

I bet the air is toasted in cigarette smoke

While liquor glosses over the wooden trim.

Everyone is smiling, including yourself,

It’s just another Thursday.

The bass is thrumming, making you whole,

And all your worries, soluble.


But here, there is no groove

Or burning liquid to tell my thoughts to

shut the fuck up.  

Here is where self-deprecation comes to march

Waving with a smirk at every neuron,

Crossing all marked territory.


I dressed the part—draped in satin

And zipped up the heels that you like.

Even put on my petticoat swinging my scarf twice.

I went to revise, perfecting every lipstick line

And when I took a step back

All that was left was the dimmest,

saddest eyes.


I took everything off,



Convincing. I am. . .


My call log can convict me,

My number of likes are pathetic.

I’ve slid under the radar, they haven’t caught me

Yet, my righteous heart won’t let me free.


I throw on your flannel,

Losing another battle.

My mascara, now crusted, reminds me

Everything I have starved myself of.

There’s only me to blame for this

Only I can serve the penance.


While the radiator drones on,

Static and cavernous,

I hope you sip your whiskey slow.


Published inPoetry

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