i’m living off the crumbs from his table

last week’s leftover takeout

counting my dimes to buy a bottle of wine

when i should be positioning roses

this time i can’t turn the trick

lambasting those i love

in a poorly worded soliloquy

airing my dirty laundry publicly

like an entitled tart

drug dreams and filthy phantoms

occupying the sacred space

in between you and me

while the wild days are

put six feet under

during a fistfight at a funeral