came to the party
bottles were slamming
exaggerated smiles cramming
into caricatures of ex-stripper faces

buckets of lipstick
applied with a hose
from head to painted toes:
skin (and besides that: nothing)

"oh my god, alex,
what's up with your shoes?"
offering head, i supposed, i refused
holding on to a red cup for grounding

"one day, i'll be a father"
"what? ha ha. i don't know!"
mishearing my words, misreading my tone
blinking violently through misdirected sexual tension

the room grew smaller
puppet jaws flapped
i wasn't literally trapped
but i was definitely wounded

stepping discretely with rhythm
blood in my mouth ruining the taste
of thinking it's you in every girl's face
until an empty yellow couch presents itself

i can write, now, with genuine vigor
having the benefit of wisdom in bloom
after the night's last trip to the men's room
i am not finished chewing through to the marrow in this bone