An American Patient

She’s the self-diagnosed bi-polar type. Google, M.D., full accreditation. Reliant on prescribed medication her cousin fills she sells to fill her pipe with methamphetamine, crystallized, ripe for thrills derived from sleep deprivation. She shares all this with no provocation, disrobed in my bedroom, the prototype poster girl for dull, desensitized leeks, stretched six feet tall like a used rubber band. I call her filthy, so, she draws a bath, snaps a nude photo of pale, passive cheeks, and rests her breasts in the cup of my hand - her clay spun for play now a sociopath’s.