All Good Junkies

She shoots up heroin at home.

I know because I saw the spoon

sitting on her coffee table

staring back at me like a

witness on trial in front

of a jury. The caked white

in her curve told me

all I needed to know.

We made chit chat

about this and that

and all the expected

small talk bullshit

we felt necessary

to defuse awkward

situations. I sat on

her couch as I

petted her pet pug

sitting in my lap.

The spoon kept staring

at me, telling me,

"You know. You know."

"But what can I do spoon?"

I thought to myself.

Nothing. Nothing.

I don't know her

well enough to say

anything to her, to

say anything to her

friends. It's her own

business if she wants

to find her bliss in a

needle. Her life is not

my responsibility.

Don't tell me I should

do something for

someone hellbent

on their own path.

Freewill, we claim it

so often, we might

as well let all good

junkies go to heaven.