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.