Amsterdam Angie

Rain.

Angie’s high.

The glass pipe sits shattered in the bathtub,

the back of her head cracked

on a pink bathroom tile.

District lights shine scarlet

through frosted glass windows,

poison needle tips in the nervous hands

of a surgeon who injects

last life images into her eyes;

the right one drooped,

eyelids batting

to the beat of Dylan’s ‘Hurricane’,

Angie goes under the foam.

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