Toast

You can’t find the lighter you say,
You need a lighter for your cigarette.  
So you grab the toaster, take it into the bathroom,
And I sit in the rocking chair and watch TV, a story
About the mundane horrors of polygamy.
Somewhere in my head, I know what’s happening,
That you took your shirt off, that you needed a
Fucking toaster in the bathroom
And a spoon
And a needle.  
Forty-five minutes, still an amateur.  
You come out and I grab your arm,
Keep my face in check, keep my jaw from dropping
At the giant, mean welt on your arm,
Ridged dents where you tied a belt to make your vein pop.
Your eyes rolling, your skin wan and sad.
I can’t look at you.  
And I never want to again.  
I want to be
That broken winged bird that can walk away.