TWENTY-SOMETHINGS.
5/9/10
Wine from a plastic cup,
Like our falsehood
And the sweat and filth on these sheets
The dryer’s broken
Walls of fracture, we’ve built around ourselves
Carpet stains and alcohol
Yellowed fingertips,
Your lips never leave your hand
Gravel and dirt,
Passed out under the street lamp
Your collars stained and bloodied
Tobacco tucked under your bra strap
Loaded up like belt rounds
One bullet to your heart,
One to your mother
And one to this god who flips our labyrinth
As we stumble like drunks down the road towards medication
Looking for a way out.
© BLAYKE MORROW, 2010
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