White walls,
The soulless smell,
Needles poke into my arm
To **** my blood
Right out of me,
And all I see
Is when he would sit
In the corner where
He poked through his arm
A needle with
Fluid as brown as honey
And where he would
Smile with ecstacy.
When the needle touches
My skin,
I feel the pain he went
Through to feel the joy,
And I cry the tears of my mother,
When he laid still on his bed.
This is about my mother, and I wrote this from her perspective. Her brother died when I was a year old. He died because of drug abuse.
My brother was talking about all the things we could do (drink or smoke), and my mother was pretty calm about the topic, until he brought up drugs. I know, it’s probably the most stupidest thing to talk about with your mum, but she went from calm to utter rage. She gave us the usual lecture about drugs, and then she brought up her fear of needles. She told us why she was really afraid of them. She was talking so fast when she was giving us the lecture, and when she told us about the needles, she was so close to breaking down. Then she said:
“I don’t want to feel what my mother felt. To see her children fall apart slowly."
Copyright 2013 Izzah Batrisyia