You're such a young woman wasteland,
you and your foolish ideals and your lack
of anything real to call your own, you
and your belief that it will happen for you,
You and your placebo for what you call love.

You and the nicotine stains across you
fingertips, as solid as anything in your
pathetic little life,
You and your lovers that never let you down,
those lovers that send fire down your
throat and erase your soul one day at a time---
Your Jim Beam, your Jack Daniel, your
Black Velvet pillow that shuttles you
into infinity on those nights when sleep comes hard.
You and your midnights forgotten in the arms of
someone, anyone, you'll never call your own, you
and your cold mornings with your guts
as entwined as the dirty sheets on your narrow bed,
You and your placebo for what you call love.

You and your conscience as flimsy and
ethereal as rising smoke from a cigarette, you
and your life as empty as the bottles that
line your windowsill, you and your
eternal plea for something, for anything,
that will drown your past away.
You're such a young woman wasteland.