Tequila Sunrises
after Charles Bukowski
When I drank
I was an inconvenience,
shots going down
way too easy into my
slight frame. I became
an immense unwieldy
snow pile streaked
with dirt and car
exhaust, a dark alleyway full
of unwanted footsteps,
a year that no one would be
sorry to forfeit. You sat with me
on the sidewalk outside the bar
on Lark street, you holding
my hair back, baby-faced boys
walking by, insisting
that you take me home, disgusted
to see someone throwing up
in the gutter. But we stayed
until my stomach was empty
of tequila sunrises and fast
food French fries. On the way back
to our off-campus apartment,
you walked in front,
guiding me as if I were sightless.
My bed spun like a yoyo
making it’s way
down a string,
like a carousel’s
colorful ponies bobbing
up and down. I wasn’t born
for this, I wasn’t meant
to rip myself into shreds,
to unleash demons
who would have their way
with me.
Lonely Heartache
I took my lonely
heartache for a walk,
put him on a leash.
We strolled through
Times Square
and Alphabet City.
We went to a tattoo
parlor where I got
a small heart inked
onto my ankle
with his initials
inside, LH, thought
I could convince him
to stay.
