I crawl up these stairs like a drunk, salted
green edges slamming the juts in hips
and knees. There is always something to binge
here; I choose verbs or intoxicants. Sobriety
is still present like some kind of chastity belt, glimmering
at any date I try to go on. My doctor asks questions.
“I don’t know. I’m really bad.” She doesn’t want to hear
the song that plays on repeat or read that poem shaking
post-written. I dont know what to give her
but this body that I toss to anyone who will touch.
The tights are dirty and so is the turtleneck, gripping
some cloth I fold myself up in place. Protecting
my abdomen. I call my mother. Is your nose stuffy?
“No mom, I’m just a little sad.” I turn the lights off.