Tuesday, February 8, 2011


She's a Junkie with a Capital J, but she's not ashamed.
Why should she be ashamed?
Her dealer's named Doctor and he writes her a chill to fight the ennui and depression.
For the occasional thrill she snorts a few from her stash of Adderall candy.
Then back down she comes with a little Valium and things look much better through the Foggieum

She and her pals, on Girls' Night Out, laugh uproariously about Mother's Little Helper.
The gals have no clue that for each Xanax they see, she drops an entire handful.

It's all so very anonymous.

They keep her weight at 109 and she knows she looks fine with her glass of red wine, taken only for the antioxidants.
She needs,
She needs,
She needs,
No, she wants.
She wants the sharp noises smooth and the loud edges quiet.
She doesn't drink and she doesn't drug because prescriptions don't count and you know it.
Why should she be ashamed?
She's not ashamed.
She's a Junkie with a Capital J.

Now that this poem has been percolating for a while, I hate it. I love individual lines but it doesn't work as a whole. It needs reworking. 

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