Wasteful, I Am

Wasteful, I am.

I don’t love the things

about myself

that make me

who I am.

 

How should I react?

Pour back more

into a throat, and in

a mouth—down tubes

that connect heart to

liver?

 

Our last conversation

goes up into the sky like flares.

I stab myself in the core of it

and hope

she is watching.

 

All of this, because I care.

 

Wasteful, I am.

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