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I Look Like A Pig In This Blouse

I Look Like A Pig In This Blouse

Why your return policy doesn’t work with a receipt is beyond me.

I’m trying.

I want badly for you to like me without the pills and the booze.

You know, I walk around the yard on the balls of my feet, trying my best to avoid pinecones.

Remember how we used to rake the leaves? And drink beer.

It’s November and you’re nowhere.

I know I said gel in your hair is gross, but put it there, please.

Hold me like we’re drunk, dancing in the bathroom of some big city club—rubbing against your jeans. I want to hold you in the stalls and kiss you while singing.

At the club they played some nonsensical rhymes by Rihanna. You wrapped your lips around my black straw, slurping the last drop of cranberry vodka, and poured the ice down my shirt. Your knees smeared in mud from falling too many times. I couldn’t find your earring.

In AA, they tell you to get away from bad people, old places, and the things you know will bring you back.

I want so badly to black out.

These days, I look like a pig in this blouse.

I cleaned my house again.

Nobody visits.

I don’t have kids. I’m tired of fooling with it.


Cory Caaz
Web Designer | Poet | Entrepreneur | Writer

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