Sitting in Cars that Go Nowhere

Some boy
invited me to pierce
my tongue
when I was just eighteen.

That boy
never saw
the thick metal rod
running through the muscle.

After just five days
the pain was
too much, so
I removed the barbell,
and I could speak
with ease again.

Enter: the age of alcoholism.
I sit stone-cold sober
with a motormouth maybe-drunk man
in a parked car
in semi-darkness.

He politely takes charge
of my tongue,
rams the needle through,
and I cannot speak
for the duration of
our time together.


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