Junkie Jenny

 

But we'll call her Jenny, four dimensional fuck up.
With a third world figure; drink struggling her flat veins
as she stood in my living-room, bored probably.
I couldn't tell if she was fresh, or just dragged the winter in.
We were both a kind of lonely. Told me how she wants to stop.
She wants to,
but he keeps bringing the stuff home.

She had good teeth, clean, and wasn't ugly. (A mouth
that wasn't for kissing, but for biting, chewing;
its primal use.) Just the deprived
heroin-weathered look. Tough but battling
to climb out of her own eyes. Soul all stamped out
and dying at the bottom of her. Maybe she wanted — needed
me to take her in for good. Feed her. Get her
to watch TV, fuck ferociously 'til she enjoys
it again. Maybe not.

I'd give her a bong four times the size of her lungs.
Her natural greed would waste none and choke on all.
Then, as she started to quiet. Melt. She'd leave. Always
left me alone. Alone. Alone,
but I never noticed.