some wise woman

once said that other people
cannot be your medicine, that love is
not meant to be an addiction, and meanwhile
i am in some man’s bed with my mind on shut-
down, my temperature rising, his hands
are holding my back and his mouth is biting
at the skin of my neck. it’s addictive enough,
it’s sin or something sacred when our hips
move simultaneously, i feel covered and
washed ashore, my legs open and bare,
i’m getting my fill, the rush, the high,
the healing, i only think of people as
medicine when it’s like this, blood bound
to satisfy and disappoint, we both control
the settings so there’s nothing to worry about,
no longing, no spoiled afternoons of truth,
we can go on trying to fix it all,
it’s easiest to have an addiction that you
chose in the first place, and every mistake
is another adventure to me,
sure i could be wise, but i’d
             rather be freed.

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