Shark Wrestler by Caroline Walton

Around my fifth beer, Drunk Me
makes her appearance. That sly grin,

the numerous exaggerated winks
following statements like, I’ve gotta go piss.

Drunk Me struts to the bathroom ten times an hour,
makes friends, bonding over shoes

and the fact that all guys are assholes.
Drunk Me has impromptu photo shoots by the stalls,

arms hooked around
her new friends’ shoulders.

Drunk Me challenges the whole bar
to chug a beer faster than her.

She is the Popeye with inflatable muscles,
arm wrestling every guy in sight,

our hand slammed on the sticky bar table
quicker than a tequila shot, every time.

Drunk Me is known to make Sylvia Plath toasts,
You do not do, you do not doooo,

before dragging us to the dance floor
because every song is her song.

Drunk Me is known to spike the truth,
spills drinks and lies down the shirts of strangers.

When someone compliments our necklace:
It’s a tooth from the shark I wrestled.

When introduced to a handsome Brazilian man:
I’m actually from Brazil.

Drunk Me sometimes speaks in a British accent
and introduces us as, Maaajory.

But when she finds a vodka-soaked girl reciting her address
like a prayer, eventually managing to say,

Please make sure I get into a taxi alone.
Please make sure he doesn’t come,

Drunk Me will pull out her inflatable muscles
and walk her down the street.

Drunk Me will ride with her in the taxi,
make sure they both get home safe.

As safe as you can be when you feel so soft
and full of hot air.

As safe as you can be
when every man is holding a pin.



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