Confessions

In a cab, unknown driver begging the question “where to?”

Cheap lipstick in one hand and broken stilettos in the other

 Because they were too expensive for the night I had.

I am hung over

Like an alcoholic on his third day sober, but I can’t stop the nausea coming in waves or the bruises on my skin like flames from my embarrassment.

I don’t remember.

I can’t answer because vodka and gin were mixed in

With

Addiction, and for a moment police sirens ring in my head and I wonder if it’s God’s way of reaching out to a sinner.

If hand cuffs are the precursor to dinner

Or am I the only one still eating that Apple?

Convincing you was hard enough but

Did you ever wonder exactly what,

We could have been without that stuff

Or sober am I not enough?

“Where to?”

And I tell him the only address I meant to,

“House of God”

Poetic Confession, number two.