November
Never a happy month, never a happy time.
Two years ago, I felt the touch of a boy who never heard the words 'no' let alone knew how to listen to them.
A year ago, I felt a high that could only come from Vicodin, oxy, and whatever else I could get my craving, adolescent hands on. The first time I learned how to scream out in silence while I discovered the rush of not being in control and falling into what I've come to terms with as 'the spins'
This November, I wallowed, I drank away every ounce of imperfection id grown to hate, pounded down pain pills like they were the only release from the disastrous unified screaming matches that attacked every nerve cell on my body, in and out of black outs, never fully able to grasp the anchored weight I had placed on others hearts that night.
Awaken to hushed voices as if whispering could make the hatred I had for everything about my existence go away, as if whispering could make this vanish as if my craving for death had all been a nightmare, but the whispering did nothing but wake me from what I hoped to be a permanent sleep, awoken to my lungs gasping for air and my insides screaming to be freed from the chemicals I'd been drowning them in.