Poppy

She was a 12 year old slant-eyed hooker from the west.
Her name was Poppy.
Poppy had a thing for the spics.
She said she liked a man that wasn't afraid to kill. She still hadn't made it through puberty, but she was as well worn as any penny ante whore in this godforsaken city. She liked playing with my revolver.
Cocking it and pointing it at me even though she knew that the hand under the pillow held a boot knife sharper than her pimps tongue.
She liked to dance to the the blue smoke that flowed from the holes in her arm and vomit black tar.
She says it's the only way she can sleep. She liked listening to Lou Reed albums and crying in the rain.
She says that it's so beautiful, it makes her eyes bleed.
Poppy liked to strip naked for me and play with herself while I masturbate then lick the cum off the ground.
Poppy use to call me Daddy.
"Daddy don't you love me?
Daddy don't you need me?"
Poppy liked to hear me sing the blues.
Poppy loved to shake her money maker.
"Daddy will you take me to Chicago?
Daddy will you take me to see Buddy Guy?"
Poppy loved to dream.
I loved Poppy the way the way i loved my coke, raw and wet, uncut, pure. Poppy use to piss me off.
"Where are you going daddy? When can you take me with you? When are you going to take me away from her, Daddy?"
Poppy likes to steal from me.
She steals my dreams.
My poetry.
The whore.
Poppy is my savior.
I love you Poppy, who ever she was?
I'll never be able to tell you in person, but I do actually love you.
To hell with you.
Fuck you.
I love you, Poppy, fuck you.
And fuck me.
And fuck this whole little fantasy of mine.