I pour
myself
into
too-tight jeans
and chunky heels
and a wonder bra—
a wonder I can
still breathe—and
a shirt too small
for my wonder
with the usual
accessories:
earrings,
make-up,
tattoos,
no lucid thought
in my head.
Happy hour.
You pour
me
out
my body dripping
from the lip
of a shot glass
drop by drop—
dry mouth,
wet lips,
heaving chest,
still no lucid thought—
into your mouth
for you
to drink up
but
you only
spit me out.