Poisoned

I.

it's a myth that smoke rises
down here, it's all i can smell.
everyone's exhaust is trapped down here
and it purples the skin around my eyes.
worse than that, i've become used
to breathing these toxins: lies about
where you were last night, knock-down
all night fights about the necklace
you gave to your T.A., weepings
over the toilet, cursing the pregnancy test makers,
shuffling of knees on carpet in your attempt
to naturally abort. the lies we tell ourselves as we lie
collapsed against brick from too many street drugs,
whirring blood struggling to escape vein
pounds against temples,
beckons the whisper of a blade to release it into air
where it can be red, where it can be alive,
vibrant, where it can become part of the concrete's
memory, permanent, a maroon stain
indistinguishable from the dark drippings of dumpsters.