By Sarah Davis
This is the Coliseum
where madness lurks inside.
We are gladiators, verbal armor to shield ourselves
with insults as spears
thrown at each other from all directions.
Thirsty for emotional innards,
our insides become hollow, empty
like the bottles discovered in the laundry room,
bathroom, closet, our minds.
The Surgeon General is the monster under the bed.
We are all infected with this burrowing parasite.
Addiction stumbles through our veins
looking for a liver on the rocks.
Shaken not stirred.
Do you like Pina Coladas?
Our hands are earthquakes.
Seismic variations clutch the glass.
Vodka tears wash the kitchen floor at night.
Twelve steps look so far when you’re
climbing from the “OPEN AT 6 A.M.” door.