She steals pain meds 
from a friend dying of cancer, 
spits out a mouthful of lies
 to cover both sets of tracks.  

In her over-drugged 
Apocalyptic haze, 
she finds God, 
pockets him for future reference.   

She looks in her mirror 
past the vacant spot 
where heart used to live, 
shrugs, wonders which dress 
would look best tonight.





Pris Campbell
©2010

Published in Full of Crow 2011

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