by Laurence Wilkins05 Jan 2020
She was in her mid 30's going on 50's selling her body
down barton street-
she left me her address when I was nineteen.
I recognised the face a week ago, I am now twenty-six-
it was sad to see the bones coming through;
more colour than the skin.
the hammered smile ceased,
as did the framework--
just an empty vessel
wired to one thing,
just a solitary cell-
my nineteen year old self tried to get her off it-
through expenditure, just to get off the street;
my naivety back then was tenfold and sweet, as I didn't see the fix-
until it was staring right infront of me
it was too dark, and the stars that night just didn't look right.