Poem II
the other day i wrote a poem
but i was drinking in a red room
and i think I lost it.
now someone will read it under the dim lamps
and wonder why,
on the back of a tiny menu,
there is writing
beginning with the words:
“I’m so scared of imaginary things”
and continuing with nightmares of spiders
and waking up cold.
i forget how it ends.
drinking this time wasn’t like the last time—
with the whiskey sours
when grief made me scratch my own hands
bloody.
this time it was just for fun.
until i lost the damn poem.
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