So I’ll tell you why I write. I write because I’m the protagonist of my own stories. I write because in my stories, I solve the problems that invariably creep up between people and I In the most heroic ways possible I write because in my world, Not every rainbow ends in a *** of gold But sliding across its multicolour will be the happiest memory in your mind I write because my stories are clouds that do have real silver linings I write because 3 am is time for chai, and childhood stories Impromptu bike rides to greet the sleeping night But all I can do is write. I write because I’m angry and frustrated but you asked me not to turn my anguish onto my body and leave battle scars for the world to question - so I write instead. I write because sometimes, the tumult in my head comes from words that are struggling to spill forth from my brain and stain empty pages with their loud meaning. I write because Writing is the only way I have to make sense of this messy world we live in.
I was itching Twitching.. Just a bit too much after the sting consumed more than my arm.. I wanted to know exactly why my daddy left So with that I did everything he did. I remember seeing the hole in his arm. . The first time we actually met. I touched it & images shot through my brain How he wrapped a belt tightening the strap Pushing in the needle His eyes roll back I wanted to understand How my father could love a drug more than his little girl What was so special? How'd this drug cause him to be the ultimate magician I mean do the greatest disappearing act. So I did exactly that. The rush driving my flesh to inch off my skin My soul escapes. My body lies limp I hear the rushing of blood flood my veins I guess I'm not as good as my dad because this time I got caught in that time frame Never again to blink To think.. I just wanted to be.. More important than the drugs . Daddy's little queen ..
Addiction is deadly. Conviction is lethal . Abuse is confusing. So he loved the needle
He laughed, His bright green eyes lighting up, His choppy messy hair, Flying up as he tilted his head back, Staring at the ceiling, He looked back sad, Whispering," maybe you could've loved yourself"