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For You, The Drunken Poet

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For You, The Drunken Poet

With plucked tights I sit, back against cold metal.

Mind slighted with a thread of marbled thoughts that slither past, around, and up against one another.


I say the word out loud and a passerby quickens her pace.

I watch her with blurred eyes, back pressed against the post box, waiting for night to deliver anonymity.


I speak more quietly this time, and watch people in the near distance.

“For you my heart, ripped from my chest.”

I think of him, then of her, and tilt my head back, squinting into the hollow grey sky.

After all the loves of my life, you’ll still be the one.

“If I could, I would plunge my fingers through my chest, rip out my heart, and give it to you.”

People stare as they pass by.

“For you my heart, a pulpy mass, of morbid diathesis.”

If I could, I would change everything I am, everything you were.

“In addition to my heart, there are some small organs that I want to give you: Glands…sweetbreads… variety meats..”

Revenge will surely come.

“I’m offering these gifts, rare gifts…I know that they don’t amount to much in the face of what you’ve given me. I’ve heard these organs can’t survive outside the body for more than a few hours. But I’ll try to get there as soon as I can. Whatever happens, it will be on me.  On my heart.”


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