10 of 304

by Tina Dene

WASTED GIRL

She stood outside the motel room,
her head resting wearily on the door.
Her skin was pale and blue-veined,
and her haunted eyes darted
from me to the floor.

Her man of the hour fumbled
with the key,
his thick gold bracelet swinging
in the air.
She clung to the wall
with a claw-like hand,
and fixed me with a vacant stare.

Her blue jeans clung
to birdlike legs,
dragging beneath feet
that were dirty and bare.
There was no softness or luster
that clung to the locks
of her dull blond hair.

No plump curve of shoulder
or soft swell of breast,
no smooth rounded bottom,
and no hope for rest.

Only bones and sharp angles
of a wasted girl waiting
as he finally unlocked the door.
She slid through hers,
I went through mine,
and I saw the girl no more.

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Poetry: Drug addiction

by Tina Dene

Poetry: Drug addiction

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