Her

I think she was a former addict, a prostitute, as well as a local barfly….. Somehow Somewhere, She lost the precious rose. Long ago with the stolen spark of kindergarten eyes.

Up and down these cold and dirty streets, more victim than martyr shot up with track mark abuse. Her pockmarked scars screamed “I am lonely, I am homely, I was wretched at birth, Please fix me they tricked me, I am nothing but dirt” Born in exile, traded for cheap rent. Her silent confessions echo within my cranium!

“My mother, I know she did her best. But she was a whore as I suckled on her breast… And I am one sucking now on this crack pipe, the taste of metal sweet in my lungs.

I inherited the best and the worst of you mother, mother Mary, divine virgin that skipped multiple generations.

And now in this bar, a man puts his hand around my waist. Up my shirt. To cop a feel. And I am tattered. A lost soul from 42 street. Never more. Never young. Foolish and abused I lay in this grimy wretched gutter tasting you. What’s left of you. Upon my forbidden tongue!”

It was
Her…..
Lost in the shadows it was always …Her