The bathroom is no bigger than a shoe box;
British racing green walls
(white stripe to go)
cry where the paint was slapped on,
too thick,
the air
that I breathe.

The light plays tricks on my eyes,
coaxed into squinting
when there’s no need to-
the slow weeping of incense smoke
too much
to bear –
my eyes water.

There he is. Here I am. Needle in arm,
Oh-fuck eyes (Oh-fuck-it’s-so-good eyes).
The ultimate rush,
even better when Daddy’s looking on,
too high
to care.
Why’s the old man crying?


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