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i want to scrupulously pour
this bottle of vodka
on your open wounds
that streak your arms
in red
and add pinches of salt
to fill those
sinks of blood
to make the solution
more concentrated
i want to sterilize
your cuts
and cleanse your demons
maybe the liquid
will penetrate
your soul
and intoxicate
your grief
turning sorrows into laughter
and i want to
wipe you clean
with a warm-soaked
washcloth
as you shed your sins
onto the
dirty rag
i may be an idealist
but i believe i can cure
you of the disease called
mortality
while curing myself
of this universal virus
because
my mouth is filled with
poison
stained with traces of
clear wine
inevitably leading
to internal cavities
but if my vodka is poured
onto your arms
my demons will be drained
down the sinks of blood
until the bottle
is empty
the only evidence
that they ever existed
lies conspicuously on
my breath
this concept
of draining and filling
is so simple but
the tricky part
is maybe i am too selfish
to pour the fluid
and you may be too scared
to accept it
with open arms
so we remain at a standstill
as we wait for each other
to tip the balance and let the
vodka fall

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