My phalange-cycles quake

under a dusting of cocaine

as I lay, unmoving, at the

bottom of an icy lake.

It was my mistake.


I am falling through the hall

as I drown in alcohol.

The small bit of blood in my veins

thin out as it starts to rain

out vomit against tile.

I guess I'll be here for a while.


I feel an aching in the pit

of my stomach as I sit

in the tub of which I fell

against the razor that I

have against my wrist.

I want to make a slit.