Chili Peppers and Sardine Cans

A tired leather jacket,

peeling from wear,

gently put to rest on crushed velvet cushions.

The wet iron coating my mouth,

my cuticles

bitten raw.

Bitter olive pits,

twisting my face into disgust.

Satin ribbons holding on to damaged hair—

bandages concealing mangled scabs.

I am the pack of Marlboros

being smoked for the very first time.

The choked out, teary eyed cough and the wretched gag that follows

each drag.

I am thick paint, cracked and dry,

cemented to the edge of the tube.

I am the dribble of cranberry juice on my new white t-shirt,

the half-empty gatorade bottle on my mother’s nightstand.

I am the bloodshot eyes in the mirror.

I am the tylenol I no longer take each morning,

I am the first aid kit hidden behind that same mirror.