He told me that
Ivy bags never feel as good as shooting up,
Watching the needle slide into his arm.
Watching his liquid life drip from a
Plastic bag
Into the tube.

The first time he overdosed his friends were so scared
They left him to the dogs.
On the side of the road,
In a fit of rambling and cold sweat.
The sweat, everywhere
The cold was deeper in his bones.

The second time he was at his Mothers house.
She wanted so badly to see the little
Boy she once
Held to her breast.
But looked down on his shaking  
Ashamed to not recognize the body at her feet.

By the third time
He had no one left.
They classified him as a lonely addict,
Addicted to several deadly drugs.

At some point he realized he wasn't going to have
The wake up moment.
He was never going to bounce back from this
Swallowing sleep
Consuming his life one second at a time.
Ticking away he is lost to the sound of the clock
He says the rhythm puts him to sleep

He told me ivy bags never felt as good as shooting up
But sometimes the clock in the hospital would break
And he could pretend
He didn't ever feel the time.