by Jordan Jamison
The apartment festers like open sores on feet, memories of dope itches and milky spoons of diseased liver brown, Coca-Cola brown, everything is brown. I continue to think of you, T.S. Eliot; would you write a poem about the apartment, about working-class Mexican fiends who double as modern day Dantes? Probably not, but my arms hurt. My veins are an adorable apple bruise barely oxidized. I love my veins, always have. Sometimes when I can't sleep and my nose is running and I can hear the water in the wall and the delicious couples screaming at each other out on the sidewalk, I wonder if you love your veins as much as I love mine.
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