I never saw you naked on the side of the road.
They never told me if the needle
was still in your arm.
Or if your parents knew
the way I knew
you needed to die.
And I let you.

Because I was jealous of your lack of hope.
It intoxicated my senses.
You made me,
the cautious, lone wolf,
a tempered and hungry dog.
I pawed at your emptiness
because it filled me with relief.

My victim.
It was as if you saw the bullet racing towards you
and I could almost see its reflection
glimmer in your eyes,
so much more real than sadness
or those emotions that your **** friends peddled
and I bought.
I bought and paid and paid with
the currency of sin.
Devils only take the damned.
You knew, secretly,
this was **** as well.

They don't get it.
Neither do I.
And I can't dress up.

Because they found you naked on the side of the road.
And all I could do was laugh.

Like we were racing for the exit,
like a game,
and you found it first.

I got so drunk for your funeral
I lost two jobs the same day.
I smoked until my lungs hurt
and my body ached
and my car roared with the stench
of the ill-inclined,
the vulturous, little thieves of your show.
And I thought I was better.

But I only gave you one gift.

And that was a bottle of booze the night before you went to rehab.

We agreed.
Nobody gets sober sober.

I couldn't kiss you
'cause you might have kissed back.
Wouldn't have ****ed you
because you were an addict.
Never tried to save you
because it was clear to me.

We mourned you for a day and then pretended
anyone gave a damn about you.
Even your parents.
Who never called.
Who never bothered to ask why their daughter
was found naked on the side of the road.

I would have told them.

That you were in pain.

The type of pain that eats at you
and reminds you just how alone some people really get.
I see that look in your eyes
echoed.
Echoed.
Hiding in plain sight,
I let you die and didn't give a damn.

I loved you for your poverty,
your shame,
your dirty, little, grin.

They told me you died a virgin.
Naked.
On the side of the road.
Like a McDonald's bag that someone decided
wasn't worth eating.

I couldn't care less.

If you died burning or running or fighting or free or falling from the fastest ****ing freeway lane from hell.

You died
and the buzzards of our town
fed off your lack of flesh,
exaggerating their connection to the dead.
We pretended we ever cared.
I'm no different,
other than I'll admit it.
And if I'd said this you wouldn't have understood.

Because you cared about one thing;
the direction to the exit.

Where we don't collect the dead
or mourn them,
or bury them,
or leave the token flowers on the token wood
when we may as well flip poker chips
towards a dead gambling addict.

Your flower does not bloom again.
No life fed by your death.
They found you naked on the side of the road
and I really thought it was funny.

You were braver than me.
Stronger.
Brave enough to realize how impossible it was
to pierce the shallowest layer of skin
on this sad beast of life.

I imagine you happier dead.
Laughing, rotting,
naked on the side of the road,
popping Xanax and drinking the whiskey
I imagine never running out.
Because it was the only gift I gave you.

And I deserve to be as cheap and fake as them.
At least sometimes.

They found you naked on the side of the road almost a year ago.
And all I could do was laugh.

GET-IN MY BROTHER!
are you sure i dident write that?!
haha,without a doubt Wikid!

what a brilliant write!!!!

deep, and riveting

nicely done...

yes, wicked