Romancing the Stoned “Never use the word susceptible in a poem.” I fear the
smell of my father’s aftershave. “I’m not nessesarily opposed
to it being a joke, one told in earnest.” Thighs
clench pre-piss; women’s bathroom smell of ammonia and blood.
Romancing the stoned. My boyfriend is allergic to my drugs.
I hallucinate after more than two drinks, what
happened to may water-glass whiskey days? “I object to
the adjective.” The professor carbonates my poems.
And alcohol is my lover’s drug of choice. A couple
glasses full of rum-and-coke (his weak and iced, mine strong)
I finished his anyways, washed my Wellbutrin down
with a mouthful too warm too fizz. My sister’s
boyfriend passes me a joint of Chronic. The
side of my face lands on my boyfriend’s chest,
on the way to bed my whole world disappears.
On this particuliar night he is still a virgin-
my k-yed fingers can barely wiggle
into him, it hurts, he complains, too young to
understand the best things do. On the way to
bed I begin hallucinating; I’m six years old
again, pressing spider-bit hands against the
backdoor screen. My parents are yelling at me
again, I’m afraid of being sent to bed.
Dimly again I hear my boyfriend’s voice,
his hand rests uncertainly on my back,
the world smells like warm aluminum and
flaking latex paint. Is this how seizures
work?  ¶ 6:57 PM