our lives are tragedies
or soap operas—I can’t tell
what is worse or what is on
next episode—I’ll need
a bottle for this before long.

already I swallow these pills
of affection and fears—down they go
and though I say nothing
bloodshot eyes and trembling hands
kill the lights on my act anyway.

I’ve decided my name fits
after all, I’ve turned bitter
like the dark coffee that stains
my life—I’m sure that I’m
the screw-up that my mother will not love.

(every word from my mouth
twists in the air like smoke
I meant to comfort you
but this turned into something
caustic, ironic, and blunt.)

and in answer to your question
from the night before last—
I don’t know who I loved, darling
but I know it wasn’t me.