Good As New (the 420 love poem)

I steal heat from the faucet

with my Fitbit still on.

Glass reddens in my scalding fist.

I drink nectar

like a dragon,

blow off steam

like the best of them.

The dank warmth

of hot breathing

does not burn

off the yearning.

I draw heat again

in this way of self-preservation.

I’ve spent eight years

getting well enough to say

That sucked. I’m so sorry. I’m still learning

to speak without spitting sparks

meant to catch.

From compulsion to confession:

I sit in salt baths soaking

and sucking it up

the way I should have.

So when the steam clears,

I’ll be good as new.