The Career Woman

I have made a vocation for myself.
It is just as good as any other.
I wake in the morning, thirsty from my slurry state.
Then, I disinfect the marks from the night before.
She is the stalk of six faces.
Six mouths and tongues that neatly work together
To construct a mechanic whore house.
I am the iron guard.
The gates for which you seek have been cauterized.
My ribs were splayed open like a test subject.
Small, particular medical tools lined up
Against my bare skin, ready to be picked up
And used.
She, the ram, broke her horns in halves.
These rise like small houses-
Empty inside from an affair long ago.
On the night my mother abandoned me
She fucked a man for a meth pipe.
I am the gambled baby, a product of a
Junkie’s exchange in the lonely streets
Of wet Los Angeles.
When I turned five, I scoured the sidewalks
For just-used cigarettes, wrapping my small lips
Around the filters, sucking away, hoping it would
Connect me to her, to them.
This is my career.
I’m sucking away at black-tar.
I never feel any better, never fuck any better,
Never taste any better, never look any better.
I’ve taken my Bible and have masturbated to Judas.


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