Every Party Poem by Alexandra Reiss

I wonder what will finally get me in the end: the booze or the cold tablets.
Red-eyed awake: I contemplate the man.
You say he keeps you down. Really,
he keeps you up, swearing sweaty in the middle of the night.
My mind is cut to pieces. But seriously,
it is only the clock that is always ticking.
You watch it, damn it, in the whipped-cream hours of the morning.
Still, you drift off to sleep, becoming silent and still; not worrying whether it will still be there when you wake up in tomorrow.

In a few hours I will be asleep and you will have this thought:
Is she still breathing?
Good.

We used to talk about doing something, at least.
Now your ashtray mouth flutters moth-like talking but saying nothing.
Was last night fun?