from california with love

i am the rib bones of a
1990 heroin chic model,
laid out underneath the xylophone pattern of industrial
pollution,
tallying calories on an abacus
& using tape measures as nooses
swearing to no one in particular
that i'll give up my suicidal impulses
by 10:30 tomorrow morning.

creating abstract compilations of wasted youth
by the light of chainsmoked cigarettes
writing poems to the ashes
to keep my mind off the boy
so carnivorous in his apathy towards me
that he might still care
(if he ever did at all, that is.)

pulling splinters out of the cheap wal-mart table
and tossing looks as black as my lungs
to boys that ., so good night
("we'll talk when you're 18")

18, drowing myself in the california ocean
because i ran out of rocks to throw
and my porn star name was taken-
wondering
when you read about this in the papers
if you will wonder if i thought of you.

-fin.