Thursday 11/01/2007 12:08:00 AM

Her pussy like a tackle box. Full of hooks and lures. Determined. Precious. Devoted to the aftermath. As every stray must be if it wants to find a home.

The worms didn't seem to care that she was using them. Her past was not there during roll call. Tardy, but not truant. Making her boots from the footprints she's saved. Dirty Polaroids try to be the people she thinks she can remember. When it's dark. And the walls are doubtful. Arguing the strategies of victims with their nightgowns open. With their slippers under the bed.

Each drug making the the lost moments mine again. Naming those graves with persistent chisels. As if they were there in the stone all along. And we're digging. Scratching with broken fingernail for the names we know are in there.

The beauty of loneliness is that I don't need. Don't want anymore. Whatever it is that makes us pretend some one's still listening.

The disappointment is. There are gods for what you wish. But for what you desire there are only people.

Gravity is such a liar.

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