Liqueur-kissed smeared

lipstick, as the man at the bar hands over

his wages for an easy fix.

Now, the morning sun laps at my eye-lids

for last night’s antics are another head-cold


When the liquid laced my throat

the mindless poison, ferociously provokes

stumbled words across the screen,

with words Grandma would deem ‘obscene.’


For now pound shots are regret’s token

with actions hazy; I hope aren’t spoken.

What was a rush, a gush-ing, a spew

of desperation, sober thoughts

disguised by tequila’s aftermath.






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