Bad Habit

Blue smoke
fingernails
down the furniture.

I prefer you
pack your bags,
rip up your
riches to rags.

I never wanted
the friction or static shocks,
relentless addiction that picks
upon my bones like vultures,

drapes my
flesh over
jagged rocks.

I never wanted to hear
the door knock,
hearsay call,
a telephone in my head ringing
over
and over
and over but no one talks
on
the other end.

I never wanted
to put all my
stock in empty rooms,
as if the end looms,
as if I needed
to prove
this lonely house
needed filling.

And God willing, I’ll kick
this habit if
it kills me,

sending the rest of
this nine-story building

up,
up,
up,

and bring it
down in flames.

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2 thoughts on “Bad Habit

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