for two years every day had a purpose: get more ******. weeks became punctuated with Narcan in mcdonalds bathrooms and breaking your ribs trying to make you breathe again- when my hands come down on your chest i go back to the seventh grade someone is explaining that birds' bones are hollow because they were born to fly-
why is there such sick pleasure in this? it was never as simple as wanting to get high- first day: i can't think of the baby that died I need to get high second day: I can't think about the boy that ***** me I need to get high over and over and over we would make love on the ******, forgive our faults as soon as we found a vein sharing a needle, you've been deeper inside of me than anyone-
i'm sober now. moved thirty miles north. they took you away from me and the ****** my days aren't marked with purpose anymore it's been fourteen days since I finally thought of the child I'm still scared to mourn and the boy whose name I am too scared to whisper when I am alone
I have not left my house in fourteen days and i can't breathe deeply; I broke my rib on day one