I swallow hard and shake, shiver, sweat –

I crawl off edges and dance like I'm flying. I don't remember where you picked me up

or what we said in between gulps of guaranteed lust –

don't remember how we ended (clutching cold brick and your skin) and don't remember

that silver flask and it's foreign liquids, I taste liquor on your breath and realize it's from me; I spread disease and it's the kind that makes you walk into meetings to say—

My name is and I'm an… I'm a what? A drunk, dazed, done with homewrecking.

You left your flask on my desk and walked away with your girlfriend in the morning.

I swallowed so hard, crawled into you, gulped skin down like foreign liquids.

My name isn't yours and I'm an alcoholic.

It's the second time—bent and bruising in a shower stall that I can barely

distinguish your eyes from mine. You've marked me up. I want to scream

but water drowns me out. In.