You carry your father's habits
underneath the curtains of your omentum,
hoping to stop the infection of
your mother's impuissance.
You've seen your phone flash
with missed calls from a jail cell,
but you deny deny deny that
you are worst as their hybrid.
Drugs land you a sentence so you might
go down easier written as a liquid addict.
Bottle bottle on the floor,
whose memory did you kick out the door?
Bottles scattered in boxes,
under beds, in your vagina,
but you got it under control, right?
Hold on there fancy child,
don't you see your gut growing?
You're carrying too much
rejection in your lymph nodes,
stuffing down your want, need,
want, need because of you think
everyone probably sees the witch in you:
The nothing-good-comes-out-of a girl
who brands her liver with wine sales
and club shots, hoping to magically bottle
pin-prickles of love to cure
the loneliness filtering in her stomach.