seventeen months later and I am still hungover
waking up head-sore and sandpaper-tongued, because
you kissed me too rough and I scabbed and scarred over
and now I scratch my lovers' skins when I try to tell them secrets
waking up sloshing with a stomach still full of you
from a dream where we talked, just talked
and my therapist asked me why that was a nightmare?
all I know is when she asks me, I have to sit down for a moment
dizzy and fluttering like a moth in my own glass head
and why was I so comfortable reclining into the cushions of you?
and were the thorns there all along, and why did it take time
for me to find the puncture wounds you left?
I don't know, I don't know
the wind is knocked out of me
when I don't know, still, with a seventeen-month headache
hanging limp over the toilet and waiting to spit you up
and be done with it, finally
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