the vodka that burnt my throat cost $7.99 and came in a plastic bottle.

the label called it pomegranete but really it tasted like acetone,

or nail polish remover,

similar to the taste of clorox when it's pumped from your stomach

by emergency-room doctors wearing faces slipping with exhaustion,

their once-white jackets the same colour of the dirty grey tiles in this hotel bathroom.

here,

where i swill carpet-cleanser vodka like a college student, barely wincing

as it slips past my anesthetized tongue. i've had a lot of practice at this,

this craving to be numb, like every cliche in bad teen poetry

that can't explain how the night lit by fluorescent lights dissolves into

thoughts and shapes and colours and textures that leave no imprints;

memories can't be left in a mind so insistent on forgetting.


A/N: Not finished but I can't figure out a way to end it. Perhaps I should get drunk.