I love you so much; it’s hard to even write how much

my hangover is intense,

like concrete feet

 

dropped off a shady

east river pier -

 

light mottled & wishing

for lucid moments

 

grey cells too scarred from

agave worms to think about

 

self care and whatchamacallit

jobs and miracles; children or vehicles...

 

then you entered, well i dragged

you, into a gloomy place

 

full of paper-whites and Jesus pictures

sad excuses for life choices

 

every damn time i stood up

i fucked up the music - skipped

 

from sixteen to thirty-five

i drowned in

the liquid - smoked the

 

State of Virginia

got raped by an entire

 

cadre of militiamen.

yet still i stomped out some

 

sad merengue

hoping my hips could still seduce

 

some kind of something -

some kind of miracle -

 

a kiss that can feel

like the mouthing of prayers

 

yet such fullness can cut

like hooked bone of a finger

 

then you chose me; you liked my voluptuous

anger, my verve, or elan; my dark bangs

 

hanging - blindfolds to cover the past

the pain, but you noticed me swaying

 

and asked me to join. took my hand -

and there, is history - what else could there be?

 

like you said, the light is so beautiful to see.

Elisabeth Horan is an imperfect creature from Vermont advocating for animals, children and those suffering alone and in pain - especially those ostracized by disability and mental illness. She has work featured at Hedgehog Poetry, Moonchild Magazine, Former Cactus, TERSE. Journal, Blanket Sea and Milk & Beans. @ehoranpoet

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