~sobering thoughts
don’t come to her at 6am
before she’s intoxicated on caffeine
and triple shots of dark rum, until a
warm tingle spreads as it creeps up her
cold thighs and pulses like inspiration
to an artist’s veins
don’t come to her unless she’s high
she’s much too intimate with her addiction
the way she lets it kiss her skin
nibble on her nicotine stained fingers
and her freedom
her typewriter dust is like a toxic concoction
of pharmaceuticals and street chalk
straw sucked and exhilarating
and don’t expect her to come to you
or come for you
she stays behind the wet crumble of
cardboard walls, writing with needles
wondering if that wretched smell is
piss or poison
lah 9.21.11 ©®
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