PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It is always a tall tail

when the phone

rings, never tells the truth,

ensnaring me

like a banshee into

the web of her sickness -

my own dark hole

of suffering as she invents

those stories about missing

me, asking me to come

over so we can get frisky,

but I always decline

that invitation. It would only

make her a prostitute, and me

the john of her lies. I know

when I arrive she will soon start

asking for money, as I

reach for my wallet and give it

to her. I then depart

rather quickly and she calls

a downtown dealer. I once

parked outside and watched

him appear like a phantom

of death to deliver

those glassine bags,

filled with white powder

that she cooks up, then draws

skyward into a syringe

puncturing her veins,

as I go home bleeding

for her, cry for her, cry for

myself – because some God

somewhere has to care

that I am in love

with a junkie. A plagued,

agonized woman who

has no idea of the pain

she causes me,

nor is she concernned

being so dependent

on drugs. My affections

simply enable this madness

because she is addicted

to heroin, and I am

helplessly addicted to her.