she's too bored to have a bad trip,
too listless; riling and writhing is out of reach.
(she gave it all up for a while, but doves are
meant to fly-- she supposes-- and she couldn't
keep baby alive, even clean).
in a few years, she'll tally it down to nicotine,
but until then, she lays on her back, skin pale,
bones jutting out; the mosquitoes are crawling flying in
and she doesn't move doesn't twitch, lackluster
she lets them do what they will
jutting their stingers into her; she won't swat them away.
she can picture them, up close, filling their swollen bellies
with her life blood, to feed their children.
they are pregnant with her juices, they leave
rashes and little red bumps and itches that can't
be scratched
all over her skin. she turns her head, and
unwashed chunks of blonde hair fall in front
of her face, her pallor a pool a breeding ground
for the parasitic. she's jaded to something
simple, and it's called

Bio: Lena Judith Drake is a student and writer
whose work has been published in Phaeton and
Subterraneans literary magazines. When not
writing, she enjoys the performing arts and submerging
herself in various obsessions. Her first novel is

2007 Underground Voices