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a poem by Britt Luttrell
The Decision to Drive or Not drought, and hatred's all that's left on tap so that's what I'm drinking. I drink and everything falls in my stomach, out of my head to a place I can touch with my finger but haven't. that eats through its chain, drifted out to clubs and bars and reappeared, briefly, to those who drown in seconds. Misery has wrapped me up like hands around my drink, and though this glass is empty I'm still chewing on its ice. Brothers? I'm sick of all my brothers, my slivered sisters, who pack in here like cigarettes and sweat until they're small. have any chance to matter, but here I am like something you took pity on and fed. The neon lights that make me think of quarantine are dimming, but why? why is everyone wrapped in plastic but me? Tonight, all nights are for finding home or trying, for sleeping on the toe-prints you left kissed above my dash. for getting me here. |