gonna drink, gonna write poems

A left-open knife is bad luck

so I don’t want to know how your

feet felt cold when you saw it there.

No blood, just burnt stuff on the edge,

still enough to make you go and

ask the oracle

Jim Beam.

I didn’t mean to leave it there I didn’t mean to leave you here,

it’s not something I wanted or worked toward.

The sun was laying down, the sky was bruised.

I also left my breakfast in the sink and my skirt on the floor.

Your dad drove the cab that got me

out of there.

I was wearing your shirt, I was

smoking your weed, which you

left on the side table, which might as well

have been an invitation.

I miss your dog but I don’t

remember what you look like.

You said I might as well move in.

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