Your lung collapsed outside on the balcony,
eleven cigarettes in seventeen hours –
the mirrored bathroom
that gave you anxiety had to be
concealed by duct tape stolen from the
sex bag of operatic role-play
we carry with us to every hotel.
You couldn’t look at your nose anymore,
or feet all deliberate in disaster,
I offer you water
after you spit blood
six stories down to the street below.
You refused, reused and recycled
your saliva. You’re living the dream.
Everyone says so, so it must be true.