You got out

(Part of a new series of poems about people whom I have met, who profoundly moved me).

They said

no it’s not a person, it’s a trash bag, or wad of clothing

as I turned the car around

knowing it was a girl, curled into herself

it was for her, the end of a long night

for me, an early morning drive

into rising sun

indigo girl

her limbs thin enough, to resemble twigs

hair colored black, face still-water of a child

she waved us off

no, no, no, I’m fine here

in the fetal position, on the cement

lying by the side of road exhaust

as predator number 10, idles his car and asks

do you want me to take you home

baby?

I press myself to the window glass

no, don’t get in the car!

he looks angry when she says

I’m just taking a nap, goodnight

his lust drives off, leaving fuel staining like road kill

I wonder

what he would have done if

all 90 pounds of her, in tiny shorts and torn top

had accepted his bearly, concealed hunger

how many predators comb

early morning side walks, hoping

to pick up lost girls?

she’s got sense and she also, doesn’t know

but I do

I was her once

crawling out of an abandoned warehouse

knife wounds, waltzing on my throat

cold semen in my belly

clawmarks designating, my survival

bearly

the car that stopped then

a light in darkness

they took me away, from near death

when so easily

I could have been picked up, a second time

a third,

by hands with bad intention

when you are fallen

people often crowd in, to help you

fall again

like wolves who smell

the coming of blood and

vulnerabilities, we think we hide

I told her

don’t get into a car with a lone man, or group of men

they may not show their fangs but

you are a little piece of goodness

sometimes people who prowl, want to hurt

that shining within you

we drove

she was looking out the window

with her unslept eyes and the residue of last night

still high on her pain

and for the first time in my life

I no longer felt a victim

but one of the imaginary horses, I used to ride

speeding away from slick, sales-man, cough

of curb-side prowler

I wanted to make her better

but sometimes you can only

patch and release

to maybe nothing safer than hope

with a few words

wishing, that when she’s sober

waking without assault

she remembers

you were her once

and you got out

 

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Addict

I am an addict

an addict who

never takes too much

nevertheless I am addicted

in ways that are unproven or run

thin white scars shiny and tight

like crossed legs try not to uncross

I am addicted to you

I am addicted to the feeling

of being high

it’s easy when you feel like you’re dying

to reach for a bottle, a pipe, a rolled paper, anything

to take away the crime

of hurting without cause

or so it appears

to the callous world who say

get a grip for fucks sake

you are pathetic

oh yes you feel you are

lying beneath them after swallowing too much

of their blow back

see, we’re two different species

the addict and the non addicted

the latter wake up and see

they are not nailed to a cross

their fingers are not blistered and torn

rent by iron and blood

stretching in the morning sun

going for a jog

balance over balance over balance

supple minds malleable bodies

for the addict who plunges

into abyss there is nothing powerful enough to resist

everything

take a pin stab yourself

if it helps do it again

take a person cut your neck

if it helps do it again

take a lover, slice them in two

keep the half that won’t leave you

the addict only knows how to chase

the feeling of relief

blinded by the agony

of seeing

themselves without skin