My head’s waterlogged with love
and I’m ringing the neck of the bottle for a droplet
I chewed on men like air
I’ve exhausted the population of them,
Sleepless, they’re in,
The next, they’re gone.

If I cooled myself down to a mere freckle on his face,
Or a partial corner of his stubble, then I could taste him like paint
Smell him like petrichor
His fleshy hand sponging away the alcohol
I’m drinking him from his spout
And all I’m tasting is mud
So I throw him out like he’s past his sell-by date.

And if I had a little more patience,
Mother always told me, then maybe I could learn to feel things
Things like sunlight, or sticky fingers from peeling oranges,
Love, or even kisses,
But try as I might humans are sickly creatures
And they either rush to things or don’t bother.

The rest don’t care.
So I became the ultimate ambusher.
And they wouldn’t understand why I live for liquor
Or why liquid grounds me better than the Earth
but I rush only to the scent of things
That take me back to the addiction I had of my dead lovers.
bourbon, bourbon, bourbon.


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