Drink my picture, baby,
shake it till it’s real,
stirring won’t release
the pain that flavors
my eyes, taste the joy
I experienced at 22
Don’t stab yourself
on the toothpick that holds
that olive garnish of betrayal
How was I already unhappy
when I hadn’t even bitten
that olive yet? That’s rhetorical
but also I wouldn’t mind
an answer, baby,
I’ve been stabbed by toothpicks
and I might as well be redeemed
by warning the next round
of pain-eyed cocktail picture-posers