Absinthe meets Addiction


Before Sean there had been

Other men and their characters

As their intentions had been

More pernicious than those

Of the young Anarchist, who

Was, despite the dissolution

Of their relationship and her

Subsequent hostilities still

The truest example she had

Of romantic love


Trent was a man of charm and

Device he had pursued her, his

Predation catering to no sentiment

Close-guarded or otherwise, a caveat

He extended with his name, a caveat

His smile diminished in the extension

Of hers. He regarded solely his own

Curiosity and appetite, her feelings

Were not 2nd class they were beneath

Consideration, her body, her madness,

The challenge that’s what he wanted, he

Craved aberration, scars, vulnerability, a psyche

Dismantled at the behest of his own insatiable narcissism


Trent introduced her to drugs and not the

Helpful pharmaceuticals her mother gave

Her as dictated by a professional but those

Substances which derange the senses, which

Strip from the hollows a vital marrow and from

The eyes the protective lens of reason, a lens

In herself already asymmetrically placed she

Became more unstable, dependent upon the

Serpent for survival and venom


Her veins as her flesh were littered with bruises,

Daily inflicted. Trent never beat her but he fucked

Her as if he intended to imprint upon every cell in

Her body the ferocity of his need and the shadows

Of his lips and fingers branded her but it was the

Shadow of his words inside those gutter bound avenues

Parasitically leeching her life that caused the most pain


For all his faults, of which there were many, worst of all an

Unapologetic and exhibitionistic infidelity, she had loved him,

Not simply loved him but had grown so imbedded in her

Addiction that on losing him she had stripped her pipes

Vertically from wrist to elbow in a bathtub of nearly boiling

Water. That was the day she died and the day her mother

Came unexpectedly as an angel and for the second time

Gave her life. A life she bitterly resented, because there was

No longer a “he” or even an “I” to claim responsibility for it


She spent the next year in a Rehabilitation Facility extracting

Trent piecemeal from her bones, only to find that he had

Siphoned away everything she had ever known of identity,

Of truth, even of love for which her faith had rendered her blind.

Portrait after portrait of self came up with sunken black eyes

And a mouth angled so far down as to make of her face a puppeteer’s

Mannequin. She occupied corners, catatonic, angled as if broken,

Paralyzed in her grief she clawed the walls of a much abused epidermis

That no longer seemed to contain any trace of her being,

Stripping from a cadaverous pallor ribbons of fresh blood which

Stained her surroundings in open-mouthed shades of agony. She

Wrote letters to Trent on the walls of her room with a charcoal pencil

When he didn’t respond to her telepathy but he never came, only her

Mother ever came and through every moment, no matter the level

Of inferno in which it resided she remained the source of Absinthe’s

Belief in love and ultimately the force which shifted the detritus enough

So that she could return, if only temporarily, to the surface

This submission is for

We Write Poems