I wasn't judging her the night she walked into the bar
wearing a tigers jersey from the night before,
from the floor where he left it,
from the escapade that controlled
the shift of the cloth
 from man to ground.
I saw the way she eyed my lips
like she was craving something..red.
An apple, perhaps?
or would that seem too easy, for someone
so god damn complex.
I chose to think she was craving
a rage blinded ... fuck.
and I felt.. empathy for her.
Like i wanted to mother her..
take away those demons
that touched her in a way that would make
any dirty uncle pamphlet burn in the presence
of such a fucked up woman.
But she doesn't need me to treat her condescendingly..
She says she gets that enough from the boys
at the truck stop
from the boys
at 2 dollar beer bar
from the girls
at the clinic.
She tells me she just wants to wash her hair.
Scrub the fuck out of it.
Wash it like it I can clear out the memories of her brain
simply by becoming in such close contact to her head.
I want to tell her..
she s so beautiful
in that disgusting, I found you last week,
with two weeks worth of black  mascara chipped onto your face.
sexy in that, I know you've been fucking way too much
with people who are way too over your morbid head.
and Sorry,
for never knowing anything more that
I could ever done to help her clear herself
from herself.