i know of Carramae
with caramel hair, and lips that are
lined with red.

i have seen her
beneath the pale twilight sky,
running for her life.

with tear-stained eyes and
blood-soaked thighs,
simple stilettos slick slick slick
against the street.

and i wonder,
if i die tonight
would this have really mattered?
if i shrank into the shadow
and drowned myself in booze,
if i wished away...

i will know of Carramae,
and a bag of drugs slip slip slipping out
of her silky overcoat
there to cover up the flimsy negligee-
only there are no tears, this time.

i have (always) known of Carramae,
and to be honest-

i am her.