every time i snort coke,
i get a perverse pleasure
in knowing that you would be
crying if we still talked and kept
rubbing my nose. you remember how
i promised you i quit? i was high
the first time we had sex, grass stains
on my back, your mouth by my ear.

you want to know a secret?

we only had a handful of minutes
together that i was sober for.
guess you don't know me half as
well as you thought you did,
razor blades aren't always used
for bleeding, sweetheart, and I'm not
really that happy, fingers flying over
your fucking buttons, my nails get caught,
triptriptrip, I laugh I giggle I talk, you can't
keep up, and suddenly, I'm almost running
from you. I make an excuse. tampon. upset
stomach. i was begging for you to call me a liar,
my hands in my pockets, a door slammed
and locked (public bathrooms are to dirty to kiss in
but the perfect backdrop to illegal kodak moments,
or maybe it's just another complex, another desire
to be one more cliche) you would wait, and smile at
me, i always wondered how you never knew,
or if you chose to ignore it.

(i don't care if you don't love me
anymore, i fucking destroyed you,
and it's a raw triumph
that i tell with bloody razors and
poetry, my highs have never been
so fucking good)