affection for depravity

she was always an odd girl
the kind that masturbated to horror movies
and serial killer doco’s, and found any blood erotic

dining out for a rare steak was embarrassingly intimate
like a twisted version of that scene in Sleepless in Seattle
and she’d moan as though I was feeling her up beneath the table
as bloodied juices ran down her chin
and she’d look ecstatically towards the heavens

she was every kind of addict I’ve ever met
and I was her pretty little poet
existing solely for her depraved entertainment
the grown up version of a bed time story come to life

we’d get stumbling drunk and she’d plan the perfect murder
the girls were always the same, pre-teen and blonde
with hyena laughs
while I’d drink her words down in black humor
silently praying it was the tequila talking

most of the time I liked that she was dangerous and self-medicated
and used me like chair to rest her guitar-string-noose
never stepping up to take the drop

and maybe I could have loved her
if she didn’t get off on imagining the deaths of pre-teen girls
or treat me like I was another drug
to inject into her collapsing veins

maybe I could have loved her
if I wasn’t afraid of copping a fuck and a beating
during the long night black outs
where she’d pine for the one that got away
his brains blown out across the dashboard of his car

she was always an odd girl
and for a while there
her broken depravity really turned me on

© 2012