“Just one line, a Christmas line”, force
her to phone the crisis line, she’s in a crisis
and it’s all because of you. It’s snowing
cocaine in north London. It falls
on the floor in its diamond flakes, an accident,
an accident, so she gets down on the floor and
picks it up with her nose. Your
mother must be so proud.
None for me, none for me, I’m
not allowed, you take it away from
me, stealing it away, more for you, of course.
Squinting eyes, evil eyes, dart across the table, the broken
table that you can’t afford to replace but
you can afford a gram. I pour out words
on this page as you pour vodka, as imaginary blood
pours from my vulnerable fingertips. Every time I close my
eyes I’m afraid to be alive. I don’t love you,
I don’t even love the idea of you. I just
want to be alive. Expensive little snowflakes help.
I didn’t lie but you think that I did. This breaks
my heart: and so, I lie comatose, broken like the table that you can’t
afford to replace. I’ll be angry if you wake
me up. Let her die, let her die, let her fade away. I’ve run away
now anyway, too late, boy. I’m running for the
fucking hills, away from north London and its cocaine
snowflakes and vodka chasers. There’s a raven in my
ear screeching nevermore, nevermore, the dealer is
tapping at the door. Paradise is (and will always be)
all a dream, an illusion, I reach out to touch it and
it crumbles: the venus fly trap died along with our love.
It’s in the bin, and I’m throwing you in there too.
Living in a fucking dream, poor Alice. Don’t wake her up.
She doesn’t deserve it. I look out of the window and
it’s snowing cocaine over north London.

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