Daddy Issues


In the basement of an abandoned building,
An old lover’s words vandalized the concrete walls.

“My Daddy taught me how to shoot-up.”

After the initial piercing of beveled edge into flesh,
An abscess took form under her skin
The size of a (minimal) Texas.

She laid on my lap,
I held a t-shirt soaked in warm water
Over her skin-pop.

She nodded in-and-out of sleep,
As I rocked her…like her Daddy done.

A few weeks later
I checked her pulse
While she laid stiff on my bedroom floor.
I trusted the empirical confirmation
Of a slow moving chest,
And a few hiccups to simulate life.
Stole $.50 from her pocket to purchase a soda.

A fight ensued. Because
To a junkie possession of
$.50 is a Glass Half Full moment
Towards another high.

We broke off communication.

A month into lost company,
I was informed she stole objects
From various garages
And attempted to pawn them.

Her mugshot was a pixelated framing
Of running mascara and the failed acceptance
Of future withdrawal.

My first reaction was:
“Dumb bitch. She deserves it.”
But remembering how her lipstick stained
Cigarette filters and contrasted the plaque
Adorned across her teeth
I realized the only thing that was dumb
Was my encouragement of her habit.

Her Daddy died of alcohol poisoning.
I imagine she will meet him soon.

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