Vodka makes my mouth open;
smoke makes my tongue falter:
where did my provenance go?
I used to bleed from my fingertips
Because I thought my blood was music
waiting for an aria, or a tom waits growl,
to set the sway of sweaty skins and sins.
(And god I hate you
for splitting my seams
and sewing me up
with your indecisive voices and
fleeting glimpses of fantasy.)
I wish, I wish
upon this star, hanging from the rim of the glass
that I was abnormal.
Every pretty girl loves a paradox.
(I miss spring.)
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