The whiskey glass is wise

during these moments of doubt.

It reminds me of the bruises

on your thighs,

purple and obvious

against the backdrop of your pale skin.

For an extra $6, it refills and says that

they weren’t made by my hands.

Your sentiments hit the ground

like ash, falling

from an unfiltered cigarette between

stained fingers. Everything is

a mirage, a falsity, a diversion from truth.

A half-assed smile from dry lips

echoes the unholy trinity of words

that many would kill

to hear just

once. Your only spell.

I am full yet empty,

just like the glass.

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