today, my best friend’s
boyfriend pulled a bag of
coke out of his jacket
pocket at the restaurant
table. i asked him if he wanted to
****
himself. he said drugs have never been a
dial tone, the only people they
do any damage to are the ones who don’t know what they’re
doing. i was born holding these names in my
mouth: river, jimi, darby, amy, jim… and
i’ll die knowing how much they
weigh. drugs aren’t a
privilege. i knew this long before my best
friend found her boyfriend on his bathroom
floor, blood dripping out of his
mouth like a lost
lifeline, like a wounded
animal she could never have
saved. i know i’d rather kiss junkies than
angels but i don’t want to taste that
pain, i don’t want my
mouth to mean something more than it
does. drugs bring you to the
top of the tallest thing you know
of, then strike you like a lightning
bolt until you crash into the
ground like the grey sisters in nyc
did once. i asked if he wanted to ****
himself, and he never even
heard me.