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.