They Left Me with One Hand

I never know what to do with my left hand when I'm smoking.
It twists limp like a mute limb
On a screaming tree.

What should I do
when my left thumb is perpetually wet
And I've been left with full bottles
in the closet
I promised never to touch.

What heavy labels they have,
resting in my left hand on weightless glass.
And that hospital smell,
Don't get me started on how sickly sweet
Like sterile meat,
Fashioned to kill the mind.

And my heart is ravenous for a cerebral genocide.

I used my left hand to grip yours way back when.

Tommorow that will have been one month ago.