Christina, Puff of Smoke

When we were nine and yearning, outcasted I did not understand the bruised nature of your soul. Perhaps I do not understand even now. I remember how I criticized you for the way you sang "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" in your warbling baby voice also how you were the only one who ever acknowledged me. I remember how you lived with grandparents, aunts instead of your methhead parents. Your blonde hair. Your ugly clothes. Freckles and a cheap brand of romanticism. A picture of you and me, sixteen: I remember you used to say, "Call me Puff" to all the dangerous boys; we once crowded on a dirty mattress with four other people passing bong for weed, pipe for that toxic crystal Devil of devils. I remember you fed me cigarettes, cherry tomatoes from your grandfather's garden. A lightless smoky room full of young and lonesome prisoners of perpetuated misguided soul-searching-- I remember how we savored our shared pain like something holy. Godhead of black magic and the violation of innocence. Today I am torn of that chrysalis, and I think sometimes of your soul left there to stagnate in the dark. Christina I don't know how to say any of this to you, but when I remember how you fed me cherry tomatoes I think of your grandfather finding you out, you were feeding meth to your young teenaged sister so she wouldn't care if your boyfriend and all his friends f***ed her. I remember feeling so much love for you (sister?) when now your name compels in me nothing but disgust--this disgust which bruises my soul, Christina... I never wanted to feel this.