as the smoke curled from her lips,
i thought of her as i thought of myself;
disgusted, this late night television binge
is becoming all too familiar. but her
pale skin reflecting off the sickly nature
of her disease- one of need,
one of desperation.

often, i think of marla when
i can't stand to live through myself.
she talks in droll, she looks
vagrant, and when she speaks
she speaks the words that i find myself
recoiling in disgust to. she and i,
we have a history that I'm not sure
that i could particularly articulate.

when i see that bridesmaids dress
a shell upon the side of the road,
in bright neon lights, i see;
"marla was here".
and when i feel that,
i know that i must have seen
this place before;
as marla and i,
whoever I turn out to be
are inseparable.
peas from the same pod
bullets from the same clip,
staring down the barrel of
the same gun.

and as such, i feel
that we will both be found
in the same body,
and we shall consume the same ghost.

07/06/2004

Author's Note: for cymbre; she asked me for a marla poem, so i wrote one.

Posted on 07/07/2004
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams