Lips Where There Should Be Teeth

My door only closes with the deadbolt
and my bladder is full at 3am.

I stumble ritualistically over my New Years clothes
towards my rented throne down the hallway.

My eyes soldered into squints,
and my feet bowed outward to minimize contact.

The tile is freezing! What's next?
I'll dribble on the toilet seat?

70s submarine lights *tink* twice,
the room fills with a warm buzz and unneeded ventilation.

Wide stance, finger hook, deep breath and release:
the weightlessness of bliss and relief.

Three shakes, a closed eyed glance of vanity, and
my nipples are smaller than usual.

A drip from the tip shows up in my boxers,
three shakes must not have been enough.

The A/C dries it before I slink under my sheets,
resting my head on a pillow of stars.

I dream soundly. Angry even that I had to interrupt my dinner date with Alice,
while Uncle is out doing what he does best.

Gallivanting in his
Red suit, soaked in blood,
in his White bones, soaked in bleach,
and in his Blue eyes, pretending to cry

as he slits the throat of the man from Iran.
As he poisons his brother
and beats his sister;
your own bloody mother.

He floods his own house,
shoots his own dog,
robs his own bank and
slits his own wrists.

He rapes his neighbor
and promotes extinction.

He feeds his children blood and bullets
while they beg for water.

and still, I rise for nothing but my bladder,
looking forward to the escape of my dreams.

I am what is wrong.
I am lips where there should be teeth.