Everything has a cost.
This Arizona Iced Tea:
ninety-nine cents.
Dark clouds clump
around stars like cellulite.
The sidewalk stinks
sickly sweet of rotting petals.
An old lover’s tobacco breath
won’t call me. I am a pillar of raw
meat everybody’s squeamish
to touch. That’s a lie.
I could surely lure a hand if
I went bar-flying in that dress
I wore to the grocery store,
the one that made the car
of teenagers shout: show us
your tits! It’s easier to be a body
when I’m not watching. A boy
I barely know says he got sober
by masturbating constantly
and binging horror films
while I watch him smoke
outside a church. It’s ugly
how much I want him
to pin me against the wall
and run his hand up my skirt,
remind me what it’s like to be
greedy, a glass three fingers full.