A Goat for A Paragraph

She names her enemies by the number of cigarettes she's smoked to defeat them. Her lovers are a bit more of a riddle. Photographs she can't develop, but swears to have taken. Bartering with strangers for the words they chewed from her lips. A pale iceberg of pantyhose melt dear to the bone. In weak crutches. In sour chokes of bubble gum she's still content to chew.

If I look for answer I might find one. And then what would I do? Spend my life soiling every cradle until I find the one that is mine. The snow drowned in itself. Dead coal eyes still looking for a mother. Remove the Styrofoam from between all those blow jobs and finally embrace the bruises.

I can't.

I don't.

And neither do you. Know how the teddy bear suffers. The pain of the objects that silently sleep with us.

Even when I'm not the weaker of us. French maids high on justice. Fishnet judges harsher than you'd think. The skirt is jury. The heels are judge. When I take them off at last. Hidden reservoirs in the feminine that turn all this rain into a way to quench my thirst.

I can't.

You wont.

We've plenty of lies left to tell each other.

Just not enough time.

We were close enough to know how far away we were.