Apparently, My Limit is Two out of Three

Filling bowl, pipe and pint after

emptying bowl after pipe after pint,

I see through my glasses toward the horror

and vices lit and beheld within and

without anxious bowels. Grass burns,

mixed with dogshit and toxic runoff

demanding still more poison to cool

burnt vocal cords charred by coughs and cries for help.

Water would be so sweet if it didn’t

attract annoying company—the kind

that won’t violently fuck the body free

of pollution and reminiscent thought. Take care.

Or better yet take a change of clothes and

a small bikini and wait for the tide of currents

and chemical soup to drown pink, wrinkled matter—

the fat floating on saline in a deprivation tank.

By Vivian Stone is a trans writer living in Orlando, Florida. She spends most of her time working as an archivist, but in her free time she enjoys videogames, tattooing, tweeting into the void and playing with her pet Miniature Australian Shepherd, Brady. Vivian recently graduated from the University of central Florida. You can find her work published in Juste Milieu, Lychee Rind, Shifter Mag, and LitBreak Magazine.