I’d shoot you up,
swallow you whole with
a glass of orange juice
in the morning—
inhale you
during my lunch breaks.

I thought that I needed you. 

Now my sheets are drenched
in all the words you’ve ever said and 
my eyes roll back to replay
your smile until it distorts
into a sneer.
And I can smell your sweat. 
I can taste your lips. 
I can taste the milk going sour. 

You are leaking out of
the bullet holes—out of
all of my pores—but
I know this
is part of getting clean.