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suck

The past is always with us.


memories like swarming
bats
fill her head as on her
knees
she performs the
ritual.
it’s cold in the
alleyway
but she’s used to
that.
she sighs,
like a nun
waiting for
death,
as he unzips his
relic
and holds her
face,
expressionless as
candle-wax.
as he fills her
mouth
with warm flesh
the memories return;
the black wings won’t leave
her.
as he finishes off
she holds out her palm for
cash,
as with the other hand
she wipes her
lips.

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