Sympathy is her drug, free of choice.
I was the dealer, paying the prices as time ticked by,
believing the rotation of voices heard by her ears
in her pretty head.
I humor the words she chases after.
In her speech of dreams we both knew a poor girl from Mississippi
couldn’t achieve.
What I know of her today is what she’d left behind,
nothing.
A choice to find the voice she’d avoided singled her out,
stalking her as though she were a bloody valentine.
Turquoise blinders shade the front window
as she drowns in her mistakes.
Regrets, she has few.
Broken promises,
she has more than enough to fill a Sea of Forgetfulness.
I’d stashed cash in a savings account
only to blow it on a drug I couldn’t afford.
I’d beg on the streets,
in the snow, freezing rain, just so you’d know —
it’s not your fault.
And now, we’re lying naked underneath the hickory tree
of a city that voted her into office.
(© 2022 AC)
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