Thursday, February 10, 2011


sang the lullabies
that Momma got too old to sing.
Clinging to my chest
She the soul and I the body.
"Don't you worry bout a thing."
she said,
and she took me cross the streets
took me
to a place I fear to name....

"I need a FIX!" she screams, two steps past desperation. Again, she calls. She swears she screams-"I need a FIX!-" she loud?

Loud? Silence. She sits. Contemplating. Feeling the reverberations of her internal proclamation. Shivering at the waves as though each will knock her out of her misery. Each will knock her out of what she's known and back...back to...where, exactly?

She sits, eyes open, full faith  in their passing, the traces of moments, echoes, and souls, sliding, salty, down her throat. She swallows.
She contemplates.

"I need a...a fix?" she asks. She's not uncertain, just unaware of who is listening. Who of those not meeting her eyes, not speaking her pain, is feeling her call? She knows--they hear her.

Scratching unwashed skin, the grit of memories lies so far beneath  her fingernails that it aches. Tearing back layers in hope and fear that she will know the why. Know the truth. See the reasoning behind the stench of failure and abuse...and overworn clothes.

"I need a f-!" she cries. But her throat has caught her screaming. She needn't bother with the people, always moving way too fast. Who could care if they were watching? They don't see her as they pass. They don't know her. They don't want her. They don't hear what she could say. Understand. Why she takes the needle. Takes the knife. Takes the pain. And


it across her skin.

The calm exhaled every time she takes a hit.
The cage she locks with every inch,  each scar that lines her skin.
But at least the past,
the past can't get in....

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