She doesn't sleep well,
her bed a crinkled mess
of Ecstasy-fueled paper scribbles
dented in the shapes of strange men,
the chalk outlines of her incendiary lust.
When I first met her,
she blew smoke in my face
with a question:
"Angels or demons, sweetheart, angels or demons?"
The iron in her eye dared me to tell her no,
to say, "You shouldn't,"
but in the end, she left the bar
with a more vertebrate creature
who won her with a bruised fist
and a split lip.
When I saw her last,
she was thinner.
The strip club neon flashing on her teeth
reminded me of electric bug traps,
and she told me I would need a lot of speed
to catch h