A Guy Reads My Poem On Meth

He explains that the grammar is all incorrect:
there needs to be a sense of urgency behind it
or that someone is on their dying breath.

I put my ear to his chest to figure out precisely
what it is he is looking for in this poem that he
reads with eyes darting on and off the page.

There is a shallow, heaving breath followed by
a thump followed by a lighter clicking followed
by the sound of a breath in a deep sigh.

The first time this man ruined me he spit into
my cheek and asked me to save it for later.
Said that there would come a point…thirst.

Crosses out any mention of his name in this
poem and guzzles down the pen ink with hopes
that he is able to settle the narrative: he is.

He is the guy on meth reading a poem, yes.
He is the guy whose heart was spun from gold
He is He is He is He is He is He is—ruined.

I remember reading a poem while in a state of
ruin. The film reeling and reeling and nobody
taking stock to mention the movie was over.

There is a man in a mirrored room, his hands
also mirrors, and he couldn’t get away from
himself ever. He drove himself, ever, into ruin.

A man slept with another man and in the eyes
of the divine they were both ruined. They write
a thing: a guy reads a poem on meth. Is saved.

It was the fourth day. Then the fifth. He fought.
He clipped his fingernails in separate jars and
waited for everything to stop. Sometimes it did.

He explained to the shadows the semantics of
love: there was once a body in complete ruin
and he gave it a tongue. Spun a heart of gold.

Sometimes everything doesn’t stop as expected.
I put my ear to his bare chest and the sound of
love, completely abandoned, providing hope.

Anthony Aguero is a queer writer in Los Angeles, CA. His work has appeared, or will appear, in The Bangalore Review, 2River View, The Acentos Review, The Temz Review, RHINO Poetry, and Cathexis Northwest Press. You can follow his Instagram and Twitter: @shesnotinsorry.

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