You say you'll sell me pieces of your soul,
But I can't afford the best bits:
The oxygenated areas that keep me breathing you in,
Deep and slow,
Instead of these staccato gasps that never quite catch you.
"Grow up, girl," you say
As you shake your piggy bank.
The fullness mocks my hollow pockets,
The deepest one still begging to beat for you.
Beaten down, I scrounge for change
To afford your scraps.
Even if it's dogmeat or whisky-dick dreck,
I am sadly glad to pay for your pieces
With the best bits of me.