The snow dies on the wet
cement while the pacing
whores are clustered up
again on Tellimont street.
Wading through the abyss
of their attention, I see
a blonde in black
with her pale skin
broken blue by the hands
of other hungry men—and I
could be another. Yet, I go on
walking down the block—despite
distant stares that seem to
be undressing me. Because
I gotta get my fix to quit that
itch. To keep the spiders from
crawling on my skin—I gotta
look for him.
Go down the red-lit alleyway
pass the pipe-shop and strip
joint and the church I used to
visit with my grandma every
Go to the back—around and
about to find my fix with the
man I found. Hands pressed
into pockets. Searching for
the folded bills.
He whispers “where's the money?”
and I hand it over. He opens up his
tan coat to a jet-black revolver.
I go numb. Static inside. Silent. Still.
He extends the gun and presses it to
my thinly covered chest. I feel its icy
touch emptying into me and before I
could even plea—the flare comes free.
Ringing envelops me as my back hits
the ground. Blurs and blotches balance
in my eyes and the warm-wetness is
leaping out of my chest. I try to clog
the hole with my hands but the blood
is still seeping out of me. My lungs are
flooded and I cough out the liquid-iron
filling up my throat.
So much time passes and I'm alone now.
I lift my hand to catch the flakes of white
gliding to the ground. My hands no longer
melt the snow—now they stick to the
browning blood. The snow can live—but
I don't think I can. Eventually, the cold
swallows me, and everything fades away
This was written October 17th, 2016 for a class I had, where I tried to explain the dangers of trigger warnings for literature. It's definitely influenced by The Velvet Underground's I'm Waiting For The Man. I'm not sure if the concept for the poem is kind of cliche in and of itself. Regardless, here it is.