i like to write about the way a bag of fentanyl with a big letter "H" on the front tastes like

i like to write about coming home to my wife crying on the steps as the paramedics drag my best friend's body out of my house

i like remembering the way my heart sounded just like 15 cops pounding on my front door

i can't tell if i'm swallowing back bile or guilt anymore
i can't tell if burning all the needles in my drawer was a sign that i'm moving on or denial of what I've done

i hate thinking about my friend with blue lips
last time i saw him he was snorting back three hundred dollars without blinking
he says he doesn't really get out of bed anymore

I know exactly what he means