i am full of
a sickening need to be a honest
a stomach full of festering
falsities that are nudging me to nausea

i am full of
single second memories and the startling conviction
that i rarely remember
what i was going to say

i am full of
reasons i never asked the men i
fucked to wear condoms
and now that means i have been long full
of other things

i am full of
a humbling hypochondria
that forces my hand into
pouring out soup cans and
checking my spastic heart

i am full of
uncapitalized letters and
comma splices,
of editing drunk and writing sober and
always being high

i am full of
perfectionism steeped in
a bitter sense of competition

i am full of
people i wanted to screw over but
let walk, like
the gracious southern girl I wasn’t
raised to be

i am full of
the girl i kissed in cemeteries because my
controls over her dangerous habits
finally tangled themselves into a noose
and i hung her in heroin

i am full of
too many things and i think i know
now why my Uncle wrote so
many poems when he was young


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