Heartless Fucking People

You were sap on my fingertips.
Amusing,
but tiresome.

I always did like sticky situations.
One must keep things interesting,
you know.

Our romance was
utterly cliché;
with the class
of the porn
you used to make.
Circa 1975.

Your capricious nature
was infectious.
And lucky for you,
the heroin had already
eradicated any morsel
of logic or reason
that should have been in attendance.

I was ripe for the picking.

With unfaltering,
unwavering decadence
you won
a child's heart,
but not without
stealing the body too.

Heartless fucking people everywhere.

Shoving young girls
flat on their taut tummkes
for better access
on beds, dirty mattresses and floors
everywhere.

I can still recall
the scent of your pillowcase
as your hand pressed,
hard,
my head to the center of the bed.

I'm sure you remember,
you know,
the way my heroin-soaked body
flopped,
nearly lifeless,
as you took
and took
and took
what you saw to be yours.

I hope I haunt
some frequented
highway of your psyche.
Walking the wet roads,
thumb extended at my side.

You know me
by the switch of my hips,
the curve of my ass
and the smell
of naive innocence.

I feel you behind me;
I always feel you behind me.

"Need a ride, kitten?"

Glorious evil pulses through me.

You're a sucker.
You'd pick me up everytime.