I'm giving up cold turkey for lent.
* * *
The shuffling of their feet wakes you ask they sneak into your stable at night. These are the biker boys, the popular boys in town, who fashion themselves after James Dean and Marlon Brando and Sid Vicious; who in the day throw stones at you from the side of the road and set fire to your tail. The night tonight is all hushed and quiet, even the trees make no sound. The boys take turns positioning themselves behind your rump and quietly sliding themselves in and humping and moaning and blowing their loads in your ass. Your braying goes unheard - not even the girl in the barn, your only friend in this world, the only one who you can say maybe even loves you, who knows you and how beautiful and timid you really are, is asleep and unwoken by your cries. This is your lot in this life, my poor little ass, my Balthazar.
* * *
Drunk, on water from the tap.
I expose myself to the toxicity, because therein lies the lie that speaks the truth. But I don't surrender.
(She and I, we soon discovered / We'd take the pills to find each other)