Two-hundred and Two: Glowed

Young kisses on beaches, summer-long,
and cars screeching for cats while I bum
cigarettes off familiar strangers, etiquette
waning like the moon I know so well. I
get this, I do, this is how it’s all supposed
to be. It’s always like this: the martinis and
the boys and the graceful hair falling like an
invitation. My nipples are standing to ovation:
another mouth, better than yours; another
dick, sweeter than yours. I am filled gratefully,
fed compliments like grapes (not that I am
hungry). I am done with being angry even
though it suits me. It’s odd but I’ve only ever
rooted for seven lovers.(So far, none have
been shooting stars, though sometimes they


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

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