“You deserve a good man,” 

He says.

I pick remnants of economically priced maroon nail polish off my fingernails.

That feeling of “I am down to my last cigarette and this night isn’t over” lingers like cough medicine on swollen tonsils.

Peppermint tongues and immature moments turn the room into a morbid nursery; I fasten the top button and let my gut travel from my persecuted belly to my neglected toes.

The other side of the room summons me
scratch that
The other side of the earth summons me

A world of cowards and pin-up girls hardly fosters
my desires.

I pray for menstruation or sobriety
whichever comes first
just purify me
till I am not widowed
to the past.

I reply with the only comeback that seems appropriate, as
my genitals enroot madness; my mind magnifies the semblance of post-vertigo:

“Do you need a glass of water?”