Writing these words
with a glass half empty of serotonin
is the most naked I’ll ever feel.

undressing these words and
warped limericks onto the floor,
hoping: perhaps even lusting,
to be fucked for the divulgence of my tongue.

And when the night ends,
and you’ve feasted on my self-piteous soliloquys,
I’ll pour myself another glass of melancholy,

and wait for tomorrow’s confession.