I need to get into

the space beyond

that place where

thoughts splinter and smooth

float me there

past afternoons

speak to me

on fumes of gin

spin

the line

or cut me one

with your credit card

how come when

women do heroin

it’s sordid

like sweaty tattoos

knotted hair

and bitten nails

but for men

it’s tortured genius

dangerous and

dirty, sure but

no drop of ink

is spilled in vain

while

you read this here

and think

you know me

again and again

 

Photo by Katrin Hauf on Unsplash