matamoras

Faces are swirled into one another.
Names are certainly forgotten.
I can barely see in this dingy light with a tub of Italian ice melting on the table before me.
There is a girl at a round table near the stage, beautiful in an easy way with large beads around her neck. She is so comfortable in this place. This motel where no one is wearing a wedding ring but me.
I think about my own beauty, not the easy kind, more of the earned kind.
I think about the lies it takes to get to a place like this within yourself.
I drink only the neck of a beer because I am already feeling sorry for myself. I am already near my breaking point.