i’d never in my life so much as dipped my pinky in a glass of wine, but my god, i was drunk on you. i was the kind of drunk where you can’t string together a sentence for the life of you and yet you reach for the vodka anyway. you were my first gasp of air after holding my breath for three years. i consumed you hungrily; you let me depend on you.
i think perhaps
small bits of my
heart are eroding
off and being
carried through my blood
stream to my brain because
i’ve been having trouble
separating the two
lately. i’m worried
pieces
of my heart have
taken root in the striatum
(an invasive species on once fertile soils):
i fear i may do
something stupid.
his hands made me drunk.
his hands made me really fucking
drunk
and his lips
his lips made me drunk,
too.
but i’ve never been
one for alcohol, really,
because wine makes me cry
and beer makes me angry.
Silenticel 