Two-hundred and Sixty: Potato

Fuschia lipstick, ripped stockings.
Not supposed to smoke but
my mouth needs to do something when it’s not joking.
Can’t breathe during Pilates.
I’ve never broken a plate in my whole damn life
but I’ve got a sweet collection of hearts.

She says, Tell me about the phoenix.
But I don’t want to.
She says, Tell me about Fred.
But I don’t want to.
She says, Tell me about him.
But I’ve already said it all.

Pop these, she said, still not pushing pills.
And I did.
And the chills were crushed.
My ribcage flew open and freed that hummingbird.
I should feel my fingers agin any day now.
Libra, wait for me! I’m coming!

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Published by

Alexia

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

One thought on “Two-hundred and Sixty: Potato”

  1. We need to talk. You,need to talk. It won’t be easy therapy is like being hit all over with a mental baseball bat for an hour.

    If it is easy than you aren’t working. Sad but true.

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