even if i quit, there's not a chance in hell i'd stop

in a heavy front room we compare insomnias
breaking each others' fingers with each turn of
conversation; bigger than this night, or the next, or the next, or those that stretch
in front. like bottomlessness
there stops being a glamour to the light-headedness, hallucinations, falsely constructed words and grammatically awkward shake hands
and truly, you'd just like to finally hit the bottom where
at last the frustrations
we cynicize
become the ripped red insides of womanhood which
can curl around your cloudy mind.
go to sleep.