You dress the back of my throat with the taste of vodka
Stale in this low blood sugar morning
I always wanted to be a starving artist
It wracks the body with aches and pains
Accenting your muscle tone with my moans
Drop a quarter at the laundromat to tell me what I know
I'm underweight but not technically unhealthy
Drop ten pounds after your hundred forty
The food sat out all night but my stomach has no ulcers
Back to the vodka when there's not much left
Acid in my stomach curdles and sways
Time to count the change on the floor
Or what's left of it
YOU ARE READING
The Poetry Collection [Editing]
PoetryA soulful recollection and philosophies on life from a young, femme, punk poet. Poems ranging from when I was still in school, moving out, exploring the world for the first time, moving through the years, until now, being an independent artist and b...
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