There is (always) a backup plan

I suppose I should worry
about the tear-tipped track marks burning hate into my arm,
the hollowempty bottles by my feet
(leaking sweet seduction, ambrosia in devil’s form),
the oh-so-sinfully-content way I j.u.m.p.
from person to person at night
(let me use you, I promise you’ll lovehate it too).

All such glorious reasons to be ashamed
for even daring to push up against the perfect broken-down-glory lives of everyone else—
all those lucky bastards who can somehow hide their crimes.

But, (and here’s the catch: ) I don’t feel guilty, baby.

After all, dirt’s infectious, and the stains form such pretty patterns of blackpurplebrown
on everything I (n)ever had.

I’m not the only fuck-up here.

And anyway, I can always lie to myself,
promise my dwindling conscience
(which is torn and spotted with leftover garbage and cigarette burns)
such sweet, soothing lullabies,
whose morals don’t mean a thing.
(they say truth is stranger then fiction, so why shouldn’t I slip right past?
Why wouldn’t they believe anything
a whore-turned-goodgirl said?)

So I swear that I’ll quit tomorrow,
swear I’ll proudly turn over a yellow-edged(to advertise infection)leaf.

I won’t, though.

But it’s a load off that shit-freckled soul of mine
(if ever there was a wasted thing…)
to know there’s still a way out.

(I just can’t find it.)

---

An-

hm......I really haven't been satisified with anything I've written lately. Writer's block, I guess......or just me running out of worthwhile ideas.

Con. Crit. welcome.....something tells me this poem could use the help.