By Kira Smelser
Hands dripping black tar sweep across my chest,
covering up your pecking marks –
all the times you’ve had a piece of me.
Beady eyes and taloned feet scratch my brain
while rank flesh dangles from your sharp beak.
You won’t leave because I don’t tell you to.
This small, clouded place envelops me and I begin
to prefer it – red chapped lips drinking
from a jagged glass filled with vodka. Refill.
I want to beat myself to a pulp maybe
even more so than I want to beat you