Poetry Corner – 2.18A “Hangover”

 

Wanting

desperately,

pathetically, that

itch in the center of my spine

that sly ouroboros

making it real

futile

making it true

it is true, isn’t it:

true love is for other people.

White jagged scars crisscross;

ex marks the spot,

tarnished,

locked away, it

hurts less to be alone.

Sweetly indulgent courtiers

are not quite right. No one

will ever be

quite right.

Hold that smile,

under inspection, at

the carousel of pretty clowns

until they look away

repelled by the

chill in

my stare. Thirst chokes

the hollow cavity,

heart bled dry, even if romance

is a bad hangover

just waiting to

happen.

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