Something Drug Related

Eager. Watching. Mind racing. Heart pounding. Nervous hands. Hurry. Hurry now. Waiting. Pointless conversation. Eye on the bedroom door.

And then it comes--the silver tray. Residue. A bit closer, almost attainable. A rolled up twenty-dollar bill."Classier." A different quote from a different man about a different drug. But then she comes. And she's radiant--white. And I want her. I love her. I fucking need her.

Grams. Lines. Weight--which I've been losing. And then it's my turn and I take a deep breath. Savor this moment because I always fear it's my last and I just can't. I can't. Breathe. Breathe in, even if it hurts. Because this is life and this how life is formed. Swallow. Sour. No, not sour. Bitter. Lingering--like a stain. On my heart. Mind. Soul.

Drip, drip, drip. Light a cigarette. And another. I want to vomit. But I won't because this is war. I'll fall in to the arms of a whore. And she'll touch me, take me, kiss me. Change me.

"It's like you wear your heart on your sleeve but you cover that shit with a coat."

I'm wearing a t-shirt. And my heart is in my nose and it's fucking bleeding. All over the bathroom floor. Sit on the toilet. Try to piss. Stare at the shower curtain. Read the shampoo bottle. Maybe these letters and words will form a catalyst. No luck.

In a different bathroom, on a different night, I'll convince a boy to fuck me. And I'll awkwardly climb on top of his body. But then, as he pushes me in to the air, something changes. And I will go. I will breathe. And, exhausted, I will still want more. And more. More. Always more. I don't care if my fucking heart explodes. I want more.

"We were a stroke of luck. We were a gold mine. They gutted us."

I'm a fucking empty carcass.

But that doesn't matter because the earth is alive and breathing. The sun has just come up and I am awake. I am alive. And, like the birds, I race across the sky. Spinning, spinning. And I won't ever come down.

"I love you. I want this to work. I know I'm all fucked up now but I mean it."

No reply. It's dead. I killed it. And, like any other murderer, I realize the mistake but the resuscitation is not working. Will not work.

There are so many words inside of my head. None of them are mine. And I need to walk. I need to pace. If I keep moving, maybe they will never catch up and I'll never have to listen. Because he's not the only one I lie to. He's not the only one I steal from. I experimented, first, on my self.

Oh, noose. Let me cut the string. Fall to the floor where it is softer, inviting.

But when you wake from your sleep, sometimes you look like a stranger. Sometimes you're beside a stranger. And sometimes you don't sleep. And, after these times, who you are and who you want to be stare at each other in a deafening silence. And the sun is bright, mocking. And the carpet is too brown. And your lips are chewed through. And your stomach is too sick.

And then you leave. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with a boy you love. And, when it's really bad and you're really tired, with a boy you might some day love. And you stare in to the eyes of everyone you see and you wonder if they know. But, vacant, they turn the corner. There is no room for revelation on days like these.

To keep going, you try to remember something. But nothing comes. Except, sometimes, "for every fear that can't be named." And, "if your thoughts should turn to death, gotta stop them out...like a cigarette."

Well, one time, I threw a cigarette out of the car window. It came back inside and set the back seat ablaze. I went through the motions and pretended to be afraid. But, secretly, I wished the fire would engulf me. So I could rise from my own ashes.