The Heroine

She’s in bed with euphoria again –
you know what they say about street walkers,
lingering beneath the flickering fluorescents,
of a city long asleep. 

Only the broken come crawling out at night.  

You’re lugging that barricade around
with spindly fingers and hazy vision,
that same murky memory that clouds over
your judgment each time your chest
barely rises to the moon and back. 

Slow, so shallow, is your breathing now

Your nose is dripping cherries. 
Your veins are bruised to the bone. 
You’re choking on that lump in
your throat,
swallowing the heartache down –


         and again, 

and again

You can keep wandering around these streets, 
searching for that something you’ve
lost amongst all its vices,
but the only place you’ll find any clarity,
is in the mirror. 


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