Cocaine

I came home to find her
in my bedroom, her long shadow
flickering across the lamplight,
bent over a small table in the corner.
Diamonds glisten in the brief
brightness, rows of them,
each barely bigger than
a nostril. They scratch.
They cut. We sniffle & maybe bleed.
Between us, we share one dollar.
I leave her to count her riches
while I lie in the dark & write
letters to myself, signing them
with someone else’s name.

Amanda Woodard is a freelance poet, essayist, and ghostwriter, as well as an MFA candidate at Antioch University. She studied Social Science and Journalism at the University of North Texas and attended writing workshops at the Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference and Writing Workshops Dallas. Her work has been performed in Oral Fixation and published in Ten Spurs, eris & eros, Cathexis Northwest Press, and Button Eye Review.