One-hundred and Ninety-eight: Don’t Stop the Party

I swear if you cut me, I’ll bleed tequila.
You don’t have to though. I do it myself,
all the time. I am leapfrogging from
night to foggy night, trying to grab
vines that will gravitate me away
from all this tangibility. It’s
embarrassing to be this fragile,
especially when inside I’m
old, old, old. So young and
already falling apart, already
covered in a thousand scraps
of fabric I pretend are bandaids.

Yesterday someone choked
on the cocktail I made:
too much moonshine,
too many cherry knots
that I had spat right back in.
I’m disgusting like that:
I like to chew on my
accomplishments until
they don’t taste like anything.

I have been dancing on tables
for forty-one days bar one.
Vodka is one of my five-a-day.
I’ve changed my eyes into olives,
my fingers into straws.
My body is a martini glass.

I am drowning in dance,
inhaling beats like No5.

Don’t stop, that’s the point,
please don’t stop.

It didn’t work last time but
Johnny’s a lot more reliable.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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