I look at your yellow rotted teeth
trying to ignore the pungency of
ammonia and sweat as I watch
your broken soul peek out from
behind your dark encircled eyes.
Life's abandoned marionette
with all your strings cut,
jerking around on my couch as
you tap your uncoordinated feet
like a rogue morse code machine.
Your meth-using parents cut most
of your strings before you
were eight years-old and then
taught you how to cut
your own strings,
hurtling you into a lifetime
The only escape from the pain
is the glass bubble,
a spiraling curl of greenish smoke
spreading like spilled ink to blot
out the agony of your very existence.
Yet you ask me to fix you,
to re-attach the strings
of your life.
But right now, we both
know you'll just cut them again.
It's what you know.
It's what you've become.
It's what you are.
you make a decision from
somewhere deep down inside your
fractured psyche that
you can no longer go on living/dying
like this every day.
And when you make that decision,
clawing your way through the
thick curtains of ruptured synapes,
swatting away the meth mites of formication
running up and down your vein-blown arms
and lay seige to the iron fortress of
your self-imposed hell,
I'll be here for you
like a modern-day Geppetto.
To re-attach the strings onto
this eight year-old Pinnochio
so that he can dance again
and finally say
"I'm a real boy!"