Nicole Lyons

Have Your Muse, I’ll Have My Whiskey

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Write your poetry and chew
the words that curdle
in your mouth or spit
them at me, I want
to know how it feels to
slide down my own face.
Am I still pretty
in the back of your throat?
No, you prefer me
streaking down my chin,
all narcissistic and gooey
mingling with the love things
you hate so much.
Spit me out, and step on me.
I will stick to the bottom
of your shoe and perhaps
you can look away
when you scrape your sole
against the edge of the curb
outside your bedroom window,
and when I dry up in the night.
I was pretty there,
in the back of your throat,
and you could have made
a home beneath my fingernails.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

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