“Hot Mess” By: Andrea Pena

Sitting in a cloud of ethanol,
gasping for air. I imagine the gases
churning in the belly of the beast
seated next to me.

Could it be a sea of vomit,
seeking an escape? Or acid,
eroding the pit away?

So cleaver is its disguise.
It can’t fool me, I can spot it
from a mile away.

I am trapped, with no way out.
Among my peers I sit,
with my nose in the air.
The stench of overpriced,
domestic beer lingers.

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