21st Dead Rats

You're the worst in turn, the first of the night.
 Who could stand there staring at the blacks of your eyes?
 What a curious type, reaching out for the iron.
 To never ask for a slap, but don't indulge in a smile.
 We're twenty-first dead rats again.
 You're the worst in turn, the first of the hour.
 I can feel it creeping on me out of the shower.
 Like a film on a postcard, a moment entranced,
 And with the confidence of prom queens insist on me asking.
 Say it was me, who's getting sick on my jeans,
 Just as I thought about the part that, "You're such a disease."
 Go on and call around, after I've been put down.
 So fucking empty when it hits you'll hear a hollow sound.
 I'm twenty-first dead rats again.