I stopped knowing what I was doing yesterday and in that split second of self doubt

my addictions flooded back like

pretentious houseguests

as summer ends.

And I realized, fuck, I never changed the sheets on the bed upstairs. My fingers have

that spicy smell of smoke and the

boys have that same


you-so-don't-ever-dare-contradict-me-sweet taste and these cigarettes are killing me.

Yesterday I left missed calls on

half a dozen cell

phones and

stopped trying to be strong as his fingers crept up my legs like a shadow of what used to

happen under the sheets with

that last lover

(last abuser).


And yesterday, while he was lighting it up in rusty metal spoons,

my hands were shaking so I was dropping money on a dirty floor

of a dirty subway car, while my ears were ringing from the night

before's music. My bare legs stuck with cold sweat to the orange

plastic seat and my eyes lost focus. And my smile was half-assed

enough to get attention and the boys said, hey, baby, could I holla

at you? and yesterday, I said yes. I wanted him back, yesterday,

because my addictions were running through my veins while his

were popping out from four strong shots of something like blow

(which is what I used to fix him up with, blow and release, like the

church man knocking at my door, trying with heavy breath to sell

me the Bible.) And yesterday, I blew out the smoke and laughed,

because I'm as likely to buy into God as I am to give him blow.