Her Valley Story

She had no more friends
who could wipe her brow
and wipe her ass
and chop the crystal meth for her
into tiny, little lines

She had no more friends
who could burn her bacon
and call her pretty
and carry her up and down
the stairs when her legs failed

This was her valley story
because her parents were the mountains
and she was sentenced to exile
in the prison of her body

She had no more friends
who could drive her to the market
and drive her out of her mind
and clean up the blood when she
smashed her face on the nightstand

She had no more friends
she could call “fucker”
and “asshole” and “stupid son of a bitch”
after they’d cleaned her up
when she’d soiled herself in the bathroom

This was her valley story
because she’d been a waterfall
but now she was stale, lonely droplets
disappearing in the unforgiving sun

This was her valley story
because she’s lost on the highway
traveling from peace of mind
to sad and pointless death

alone in a room
alone in a room
alone in a room

about six weeks
after the last of her lovers
had ceased
to give a damn

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