Fallout (Crank 3)

how hard I try, once in a while

something makes me pick at it

until the scarring

bleeds.

In my arms, Ashante cries,

innocence ripped apart

by circumstance. Bloodied by

inhuman will. Time will prove

a tourniquet. But she will always

be at risk of infection.

ANGER MUSHROOMS

Inside me, swells to fill every crack, every pore,

every cell until I burn fury. I carry Ashante to

the bed, throw back the blanket, cocoon her with it.

“Stay here.” She starts to protest, but whatever

she sees in my eyes makes her acquiesce. “Don’t

worry,” I soothe. “She won’t ever touch you again.”

Not as long as I have anything to say about it.

My head throbs. My hands shake, sweat.

It’s hard to open the door. When I do, I notice

the silent hallway, remember the hour. Don’t really

care. Light trickles from beneath Erica’s door.

She’s wide awake when I storm through it,

into her room. “What the fuck have you done?”

SHE STARES AT ME

With meth-emptied eyes,

and when she smiles in silent

defiance, she is death, grinning.

I want to shake her. Want to

kick her ass. But what for?