My friend died.
She was beautiful.
I'll remember her forever.
Oh please, this girl was getting stoned
on my couch every day, run down in her boyfriend's boxers,
burning through whatever would make a burn mark
on the cushions of our plastered souls.
She was trash, the type dumpster divers live for,
because, baby, she had status in the standing.
Smoke tendrils for hair and heroin still in her bloodstream,
she practically burnt through the velvet-lined coffin.
In a second, somebody slaps wings on her from
salvation army and calls her an angel [of the side steam smoke].
Please, if redemption is getting whacked up against a window shield --
which, reassurances made, she helped boys do many times --
then sign me up for the skydive-ride.
She told me I was beautiful.
But you have no idea -
she was really, really beautiful.
It burns.
Fuck it, she was dead the second
angel dust sent a halo down to
New Jersey. She should be honored
that down here we cook our roadkill
before we sit down to eat.
Points: 890
Reviews: 915
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