I am falling,
Yet going nowhere.
Like stagnant water, I attract the mosquitoes of society.
Blood ******* parasites.
Perhaps I have become one of them.
closing my eyes for a few more moments, I briefly acknowledge these thoughts, then slide out of bed.
My stomach turns, and I tip toe to the kitchen, knowing food will only make me sick.
My clumsy hands form my morning dose on the kitchen table.
No hesitation this time, I embrace my old friend.
He sprints through my veins.
Graciously numbing nerves, and blurring lines.
Temporary comfort is better than none, but I am back within a few hours
Staring at another line.
I cannot help but wonder which level of hell I'll be assigned, when I finally insufflate my last line.
I wear the guilt more comfortably than my own skin
I am trapped

I feel my eyes widen in anticipation.
Darting
Locking on the toolset before me.
A shiny flat razor gleams in my fingers precisely slicing my prize.
The crisply rolled hundred, my validation
Proving even more so that reality is not where I reside.
And finally, the delicately crushed powder sliding into tiny, mountain range lines. . .
All of it screaming at me "We can afford to cheat life!"
I compose my mind, putting away the small voice that whispers harsh reality.
Somewhat aware of my sweaty palms and clenched jaw, I lean closer.
Waiting a moment to take it all in.
My heart is slamming against the prison of my ribcage.
I might have laughed, if I had not been holding each breath like it was my last.
"I will fight any battle but this one!" I declare to myself. And so I will fight none at all.
I am so in love with my synthetic, rose colored shades.
Shaky hands trace the length of the line. Inhaling sharply, I feel the burn that I learned to love so long ago
My heartbeat steadies. Slowly escorting this vice to each of my extremities.
My tightly knotted being unravels.
I can breathe!
I am free!

We lie next to one another
breathing in short, uneven sighs.
Relief for him, remorse for me.
I touch his skin so he won't feel that I've already left him, playing with his hair while he daydreams.
He muses that perhaps the multitude of substances I've abused have made their way to the surface of my skin
Intoxicating, and imprisoning him, bringing him back to me always.
I dress quickly, anxious to be decent again
And tell him that he should avoid developing a taste for toxins.
He grabs my hand, pulling me back into a warm nest of blankets, pillows, and plenty of self loathing.
"I've never felt this way before" he lies, as he tries his best to catch my gaze.
I develop a newfound interest in the moon shaped marks my nails are leaving behind on the palm of my hand.
"I'm not good with words" I mutter to both of us.
He assumes I'm lost searching for adjectives to express my infatuation and assures me that words are overrated.
That what's meant to be cannot be stopped.
And I silently agree to myself later on as I tie my shoes to the rhythm of his unconscious breathing.