She sits in front
of me,
old and wrinkled and mean,
and I wonder why I'm here,
what I have that needs to be seen.
She grunts, placing the
three cards face down. I notice:
it's dark and damp and drowsy
in here. It's hopeless,
I think. I'm doomed, I know,
and I know that it shows.
She slowly looks down at the set
of Major Arcana cards,
the deck waiting for her blissful touch to
reveal their wicked meanings, sharp
like glass shards.
And then, she reads the cards.
She has a grin as she reads the first:
"Judgement, upside down,"
She says, and I frown,
"Shows your self-loathing."
I know she's right,
please, let me die on sight.
She plucks the second.
"The sun," she booms,
and I know I am doomed.
Her grin becomes evil,
because it's upside down,
I cannot make a sound.
She says, "It shows you are depressed."
And then,finally, card number three,
a message of which I'll never be free.
She reads:
"The Devil,"
and her wicked smile widens,
"It's upside down."
She leans over the table,
looking into my soul,
it's sold:
I am doomed,
because she reveals
what was sealed
by the deck:
"You will be an addict."
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