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.