Call Me

There’s a muddy stain on the stall that shapeshifts
with every blink, eyelashes pulling away
from wet and tender skin

I had hoped to be more drunk than this,
this semi-awareness that drives me
to regurgitate mercy feedings

Off of my meds, lucky one, lucky you
because we’re both liars, pissing
in alleys and fucking in the men’s room

This is all we are tonight,

howling and clawing
from key-bumps and crystal
glasses full of cheap whiskey


Gina Stratos is a writer living in northern Nevada. She enjoys collecting words, sipping buttery Chardonnay, and cancelling plans with friends. Her work can be read in Dark River Review, Door Is A Jar, The Meadow, Rabid Oak, and Words & Whispers.