Every time she asks
for money,
someone tells her
she needs a
full-time job.

A full-time job?
Yeah, sorry.
Her full-time job
has been
crying at
friends’ funerals.

She would’ve
taken those drugs
to stop them
from overdosing.

Her full-time job
has been
standing in line
feeling like an idiot
to get assistance.
If they could
make more hoops
for her to jump through,
she’d love it.

Some days she’d
sleep on the streets.

except that she
has to work up the will
to leave the house.
All that
open space
is terrifying.

She works overtime
dreaming of the babies
she could have
right now
if she hadn’t been
so young and dumb.

7, 4 and 3.
That’s how old they’d be.

Just the thought
makes her
phone her dealer.
is another
full-time fucking job.

Not functioning
has been
one hell of a career.

-GD Butler

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