When I realized I wasn’t a good person: a poem

When I realized
I wasn’t a good person,
it freed me
to 
become one.

We’re all just doing our best
and as we lather, rinse, repeat,
our bests get better.

My blood is a venom
that eats through bone.
By injury, chapped lips, or just standing
too close for too long.

If the blood doesn’t get to you, the fumes will.
Corroding holes in chests and faces
until manners give way to panicked survival.

Maybe I’m the toxic one. The negative one.

When I realized I wasn’t a good person,
I bottled up my blood,
that booze with the burning vapors,
and taught it to eat chains.
To eat chains instead of people.

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