I should have left the hotel room long ago,
maybe half an hour after you,
just long enough so no one would see us together,
but I’m too hungover. I think I’m dying.
You left a tumbler of whiskey on the bedside table,
ice cubes long melted.
I can’t even look at it now,
but I can smell it.
Aching head, dry mouth.
Naked between these sheets,
I light a cigarette.
The maid raps insistently at the door,
ready to take me out with the rest of the trash.
I hate myself at times like these.
This love has turned me into a begging dog,
which you alternately caress and kick in the ass.
You call my name,
and I come running in a pair of black stilettos.