Vodka poured
in the open wound.
Your mouth
anticipates love,
the salt of me
and the consequences
of honesty.
The drink speaks
a language lost,
blurring the words
with their emotions
and ample desire.
Tomorrow--
waking late, hung
over and alone--
you can regret
nothing. Guilt is made
of memory.
You have no sins
in need of
absolution.
"This journal is not a mere literary diversion. The further I progress, reducing to order what my past life suggests, and the more I persist in the rigor of composition--of the chapters, of the sentences, of the book itself--the more do I feel myself hardening in my will to utilize, for virtuous ends, my former hardships. I feel their power." --Jean Genet
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