soul mate paraphernalia

she’s been staring down the wrong end of a crack pipe
telling me she’s okay
handling her sex addiction just fine
in between the track marks
and bruises on her neck

we get stoned and spill our secrets
both afraid we’ll end up dead
in a tiny French apartment
like an old Hollywood diva
who lived a tragic life
before she died alone

we attract all the wrong men
who are of the opinion
we’re glorified blow up dolls
there to smack around

and women, they ain’t no better
when I love the drug fucked crazies
who always leave me broken and bleeding
after a night of delicious debauchery

we wonder why the norm seems so boring
and why the frozen streets still feel like home
from out warm lit bedrooms

out there people are honest in their dishonesty
hiding behind needles and bongs
and bottles running low on there poison

I envy her for her fucked up liberation
while I’m chasing down the straight and narrow
going bored out of my mind
though I don’t believe her
when she says she’s fine
as she crumples like yesterday’s clothes
onto the pizza box floor

it don’t matter that she don’t want me
I pick her up and love her anyway
in poetry

- Eve -