Liquid devils; it’s not other people
that I’m morbidly sick over, it’s what
they do. No. I mean, when I say, “devil,”
I mean, “words in a text;” and “liquid”? Blood.
Booze. All that I put in me. This is me:
after the shift I’m left with ugly shoes,
aching lack and words. Without dowry,
all my touchables go untouched. This booze.
This blood. These words. I bite my lip. I think
I’m a bitter deity, since I don’t
even get the chance to tell you about
who died at work, that I’m wearing your pink
boy-briefs, or that nothing (booze, blood, words) won’t
let me unread what fills me now: pure doubt.