I want it harder. More. Always.
I’m not an addict. Ringing is good. High means something inspiring. I love you,
too. There’s never enough.
Until there’s no product left,
and I can accept that, at least until tomorrow.
See, I told you I’m not an
Not seeing straight is the best.
Swaying, my favorite. Can I get another hit?
No monitor for this drug. Why?
It’s secret. People, too judgmental. There are no allies.
I want to be so fucked up I pass
out awake. I’ve had it a few times. One of them I was with my dealer and a
friend. My friend left the room. There I was, passed out awake. The surrealist,
bestest state. I couldn’t move. Our dealer leaned over my body, started with
his hands all over my chest. Neon lights and shapes and fantasies swimming in
my head. My friend came back. It was okay in the end.
Still call the guy for shit. I
mean, his shit is the best.
I’m a sloppy user.
My lungs feel kicked.
I never listen to anybody. (How
I was going to say something else
but I lost it somewhere in my head.
It’s a long and tedious drive
through a winding canyon to get back to the small town where my family lives.
When the bus finally hits my stop, my best friend is waiting for me. She is a
grade behind me, and still attending the K-8 school where we have spent most of
our lives. High school isn’t quite the adventure I thought it would be and I
look forward to these few stolen moments before returning home each day. We
make our way to the field on top of the hill between our houses. She pulls out
a cigarette and lights it, holding it to my lips so the smell won’t stick to my
fingers. We laugh over our mishaps and adventures, while taking alternate drags
until we’re down the butt. She stubs it out in the chocolate-brown dirt as I
pull out my cinnamon gum and perfume. After completing the ritual, we hug
goodbye―promising to see each other tomorrow―and as I turn to leave, she says
"You smell like musky sweet flowers." I smile back at her before
trudging down my side of the hill, wondering whether or not my parent’s car
will be sitting in the driveway.
It’s the spoon I like to gag
myself with, the wooden one with “boy” carved into the handle. I found it in a
junk shop just hanging from a hook by a dirty piece of twine. I thought it
would be splintery but it was smooth. The guy who made it sanded the hell out
of it like my dad would have. Dad was always in his shop all hours of the night
drinking Buds. I could see him making a spoon like that when my mom was
pregnant with me. And I could see mom hanging it from the wall, then jamming it
into the back of a drawer after I was born.
Lately, it’s my favorite spoon to
throw up with. I keep it on a shelf with my razors and pills and lighters,
other things I use a lot. After dinner, I tie my hair back and go into the
bathroom with the spoon, thinking maybe I’ll be luckier than my dad. Maybe
I’ll make a boy. I lift the toilet seat with my foot, and my gags sounds
like laughter echoing off the bathroom walls.
The cat was in heat. She sent her
lamentations to the sky, hungry for moonlight and a cat dick. I imagined her on
her back, rolling in the damp earth outside my window, her belly rising like a
loaf of bread.
We are similar, the cat and I.
Some nights I lie awake in bed, aching with an appetite that I can't feed. I've
learned my lesson though. I don't trust my nightly habits.
On my lips is a wail, wild yet
tamed. I suppress it and toss in my sheets as dirty paws and whiskers coalesce
in the dark.