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.