anorexic veins
collapse
and roll over
underneath
the skin.
while jumpy
white
hands
beg,
for your touch
of satisfaction.

the brief white
stain
of nicotine smoke,
plumes
through your peach fingers
that touch
the side
of my cheek.

a tangled mess
of bleeding veins
and flesh,

combining
with
your arms.

youre
taking in
all the scissor scored
hands,
the beach front
smiles
that crook your own,
and a crunchy
white
bag
full of poems.


they tell of
every game lost,
every tear.
every discarded needle,
every second of lost time
added up through all the years.


its not hard
to lay back
and imagine,
everything
that could
go wrong.

but it is hard
to sit up
and realize,
that nothing
has been right
to begin with.

its not your fault
that things come
at a price,
that if every time you tried
nothing ever came out right.

if every time you jumped
you came to fall,
and if every single needle
broke themselves off in your arm.

you cant help it
if you like tasting the spoon,
or if everyone
you ever loved
admitted you were used.

nothing ever works out
if you dont plan it,
and sometimes
it seems worthless
if you have nothing left to
plan on.

only this bag,
and these hands

are left.

because the vein
keeps rolling over
and your tears
burned
out,
the very last
cigarette.