I worry I'm not a good Marxist. Good, you say. Maybe I'm talking to the wrong people. Will it make sense to you if I say that I worry I'm not good?
I want to be uninhibited.
I got drunk the other night, God knows how much vodka and a couple of trusted friends. It made me think of you, brown eyes, brown hair flipping about, silly and serious and sad--I remember. Let's not speak of anger here.
I cried, not for you, not about you, wept for older deeper losses.
I made them worry, but I cried
it isn't gone, but somehow safer someone knows.
I will tell them thank you, but not sorry
I deserve to live.
Alcohol as medication, true.