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Skinless, boned
Mack comes back to me,
picks me up from Rehab
after the passing-out parade.
He’s always there, like weather.
He’s got a butcher shop.
I feel like skinned meat,
raw, no cover. Everything
hurts: sky, tarmac, traffic.
I don’t know how to negotiate
television and people,
unmedicated.
But I’m prepared
to give it a go.
I’m off Diazepam,
no more Lorazepam,
even though I’d kill for some
Flunitrazepam,
I’m trusting that the universe
has a plan.