Two-hundred and Fifty-seven: Sixteen

There’s a smile with my name on it,
and shots with no numbers at all
because I can’t count anything anymore;
not even sheep. Time fades like words in the sun

and I wrap my arms around porcelain boys,
stain their lips with my kisses, keeping
one wet finger up in the wind, waiting
for those dry whispers. Did you hear

about the girl that used to live here?
She gave away piece after piece of herself
and then she disappeared. I think about her
sometimes, while I rattle around in her body.

I am writing my thesis on her broken heart.
I draw charts of where I think her eyes might
have bounced and then I bury them in the garden
just to tease myself when I’m desperate and drunk.


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

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