Lies I Tell My Mother

Because I woke up lying backwards
in the bed, tangled in his heavy
rapaciousness due to last night's
three bottles of Freixenet Brut,
because I really only wanted
his touch and not his lust-
impatient ex-lover, don't you know
you can't trust me when I tell you
that I'm over the last four months-
once again, I am here. Precious mother,
this poem won't make you proud. But
then again, this poem isn't about you.

It's about him and I, our drunkenness
last night, when the idea of me lying
next to him seemed nothing short
of tantalizing, but now, with the on-set
of a hangover that cost only 8.95, there's
nowhere I'd rather be but out there, outside.

From the crevice in his bed, I breathe in,
still half asleep. My tongue already feels
fat from the lies I will keep:
Mother, this poem is not about you.
Mother, last night I got some sleep.

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