I run out of everything- money, clothing, drugs, friends, love. I've got a heart of hot rock-- from the mouth of a volcano, and legs just shaved in a cruddy bathroom.
Brushing lips with another unremarkable man-- because a night with a boring stranger is better than a night alone.
Whiskey doesn't burn like the first time I tried it-- in a New York flat, with a bible for a coaster, and hothouse hair. I was feeling sweat cool against my temples and papers scattered, damp with boozy gold rings.
Whiskey over ice-- smooth and cold and hot all at once.
And my stranger was a cute drunk--
But I didn't ask his number,
and he didn't get mine.
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