seeking salvation in seven percent solutions

she doesn’t know
which will draw out
whatever poor bastard
she has set her
vacant sights upon
so she vacillates
shifting rapidly
between bodhisattva
her every movement
dripping lavishly
false promises of
a nirvana that it seems
never truly existed
amd playing victim
demanding attention
with false tales of
traumas never experienced

unsure if it is
honey or vinegar
that attracts the fly
sticking with the old
tried and true
steaming piles of feces
because in the end
it is the buzzing
that makes her (w)hole

old man freud would have
a fraudulent field day
examiining her antics
while raising one
coke addled eyebrow to me
before i acknowledge
just how much she does
remind me of my mother
the only real answers
he could provide lying in
the small brown bottle
that sherlock preferred
a seven percent solution
that much like the ones
she so desperately pursues
solves nothing at all

a scatterbrained spider
spinning a series of
incomprehensible messes
bemoaning the lack of
struggling prey
uncertain if she is a
virginal whore or
a battered bodhisattva
indistinct behind this
haphazard web of lies

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