A Marionette In The Dark
By: E.J. Crowe

I drip puke and spit blood.
Bags under my eyes—
heavy with contemplation,
under the toxic spell of drugs.

The alluring call…
the pills whisper to me from behind the walls:
“Come home.
You belong to me.”

I stumble to my closet, slow—
covered in glistening sweat and dried *****.
I muster the strength to find my pills—
my beautiful percs,
so pretty,
so good—
a potion to forget
the awful, decaying wound
of this festering world.

I SEE THE LIGHT.

I trip—
fall
into the darkest corner of my room.
Huddled,
knelt,
dumping out my faded RX bottle.
Counting them.
Smelling them.

The demons finally have their hold.

I look around—
my musty, dry room,
a sliver of light peeking
through a busted makeshift curtain.
Dust particles dance
in the sunray like Ashes

I haven’t left the house in a week.
Haven’t showered.
Haven’t changed.
The floor’s a graveyard—
scattered crushed pills,
broken beer cans,
whiskey bottles,
dried blood.

What have I become?

The addiction became possessive—
controlling.
I was its marionette.
It weaved the strings of my bane existence.

Hopeless.
Lost.
Beautifully scared.

I hear the faint laughs
of my friends walking by the house.

***** them.
They don’t care.
My family doesn’t care.

****,
my dad gave me the pills.

Only the pills love me.

My beautiful white powder.

I use my knife to crush them.
Sweating heavy,
smelling like a living zombie.
As I drift to sleep,
my only company
is the warm embrace of my
euphoric state,
and dilated pupils.

God…

when can I be normal?

"At Least I Have My Voices"
by E.J. Crowe

Why so isolated?
Why the **** am I so alone?
Why the **** does everyone turn—
or betray—
******* zealots and fakes,
wolves in sheep’s clothing,
friends with fake love,
fake life,
fake smiles—
I see the cracks bleeding through your mask.

Your words speak kindness,
but your heart drips venom.
Why are you like this?

People hate me.
For what?
Because I speak truth?
Because I’m unfiltered?
Because I’m real?

Well, *******.
My family, my friends, my fake ******* support group.
The ones who force laughs at dumb jokes
then whisper prayers for my downfall.

I see your plans—
like scripture on stained glass.
I see the blade behind your back.
You want me to fall,
to relapse,
to burn.

Empty pill bottles whisper to me—
“Come home.”
They were my only peace,
my only silence,
my only truth.

I scream for help
from a glass fortress—
bare soul,
bleeding mind.
But somehow,
you make it about you.

Am I not human?
Do I not deserve love
that doesn't come with a leash?

Unconditional love is extinct—
a fossil of something real.
Man, I miss real…
Real conversation.
Real connection.
Real peace.

My hands are shaking.
But I don’t keep pills in the house.
My hands are shaking.
But I don’t keep ***** in the house.
****.

My mirror is crying.
...Wait.
That’s me.
At least—
what’s left of me.

I don’t even recognize my own cold eyes
as I sit
crying on the bathroom floor,
shower running so my wife doesn’t hear,
hugging myself,
screaming into my palms,
trying to smother the voices—

SHUT THE **** UP.

But they don’t.
They never do.
They remind me
what a lost cause I am.

And sometimes,
sometimes I wonder
if even my kids love me conditionally.
(God, that’s disgusting to think...)

But it’s in my head—
and that’s the worst place to be.
Even my therapist quit on me.
No text. No warning. Just—gone.

Truly alone.

...

At least I have my voices.

Through Pain I'm Real (extended)
by E.J. Crowe

I awoke
smothered in a swollen pile of percs and blood.
Dizzy.
Shaking.
Guilt splitting my head like a rusted axe.

I tell myself I’ll be fine.
Carving a life out of empty 40s and pills.
Why do I do it?
To cope?
To make this fragile experience worth it?

We call it fun—
getting depressed,
heart shattered and wrecked.
Looking into the void,
not knowing it stares back.

The siren’s call of Pandora’s box...

Sniff pills.
Drink.
Clear my head.
Get on my skateboard.
Slurred words.
Stumbling.
Sweating.
Crashing.

Only knowing it’s real
when I bottom out—
sprawled in the street,
bleeding and scared.

Only then
do I know this is my reality.
The demons and voices
silenced forcefully
by heavy doses of narcotics
and Newport 100s.

And I can’t help but smile—
my dissociated state
finally grounding me
back to something.

Through pain,
I’m real.

Finally I Can Sleep
By E.J Crowe

Groggy as I come to—
Vision blurred—
Surrounded by a puddle of puke,
Cigarette ash and Budweiser perfume the air like rot in my lungs.

I'm half-naked,
Head jackhammering,
Tooth gone—
Who the **** am I?
Where the **** am I?

Next to me,
A dark-haired woman lies still—
Dried ***** mats her curls like glue from last night’s regret.
I glance around—
Subway station.
Concrete.
Filth.
Stale **** thick like ghosts in the air.

Then—
A loud noise—

"******* STOP!! MY HEAD!!"

The train.
It roars through my skull,
Splitting me open,
Stimming, shaking, escaping,
Reality starts to unravel—
So I dig in my pocket,
Fingers fumbling for salvation.

A worn, unmarked bottle—
Pop one…
Maybe I’ll forget again.
Another…
Maybe I’ll feel better.
Another…
Maybe I’ll O.D.

She gasps awake,
But she’s not really here—
Half-blind, incoherent,
I lift her—***** and all—over my shoulders,
Her hair stings my nose but I don’t flinch.
I should be used to this.
This is my life.

On the train again,
Noise like God screaming,
I collapse into a seat.
Light a smoke.
Nod off.
The world moves.
I recognize the stops—
My town.
My home.
A sliver of hope beneath this decay.

We stumble to my front door.
Dad opens it.
I whisper—

"Help her. She needs to sober up."

Bloodshot eyes.
Cold sweats.
Puke-stiff hair.

He looks at me like death just spoke and murmurs—

"What friend?"

I look beside me.

Nothing.
No one.

She never existed.
I made her.
Built her in my mind so I wouldn’t have to shoot up alone.
So I could pretend I wasn’t this far gone.

He punches me in the face—
And for the first time in days,
Weeks,
Years…

Finally… I can sleep.

"Through the Cracked Door"

My childhood was empty—
Bleak.

Not at first.
Through the looking glass,
we looked like the Hallmark dream—
smiles painted on,
love rehearsed.
A family photo framed in lies.

But behind the cracked door,
beneath the peeling paint,
through dilapidated windows and stained curtains—
you’d see the truth.

Abuse.
Trauma.
No lullabies. No warm embraces.
Might as well have strung the noose themselves—
wrapped tight 'round my throat.
My heart beat loud in my chest
as I heard my father’s footsteps—
a countdown to pain.
The only peace I knew
was silence.

Do they love me?
They must… right?

Mom—numb on pills,
Dad—gambling away rent money,
Dinner—skipped.
Bruises—not.
Blood. Scars.
Lies wrapped in lullabies that never came.

When do I get saved?

Foster care?
Another joke.
Another hollow house,
cracked foundations.
Smiles made of plastic and practiced phrases.
But when the social worker left—
it was back to beatings.
Back to blood.
Back to scars.

When does it end?

Wire wrapped around my heart,
blood filling my ears,
voices fade—
I’m fading.
I’m lost.

Fast forward.
Hit play.

I’m 16.
Homeless.
Ran away.

Found comfort in poisons—
drugs, *****,
and strangers’ arms.

My blood became my ink.
Pain became my voice.
Cold. Alone.
But finally—
free.

"Welcome, Black Sheep"
by E.J. Crowe

To the humans that drift in between—
the ones life cast aside, marked as trash.
Why?
Because you're an addict: *****, pills, ****, cigarettes.
All man-made, not God-given.
The Lord sees us in His image—
until we sin.
Good equals bad.
Bad equals chaos.
One cannot thrive without the other.
World peace?
A pipe dream, forged by hopeless humans
for a false sense of security.
A marvel.
A utopia born from delusion.

To the addict who didn’t make it out—
I'm sorry.
Your funeral was beautiful.
You looked majestic. Clean.
A perfect family model now, I guess.
But why the fake suit?
Why the empty words?
No one wants to accept the guilt
of making you a black sheep.
A martyr.

But I saw you.
I saw the silent cries
through needle-laced veins,
your glass mask,
your bloodied eyes.
You were the truth—unfiltered.
At least you had the ***** to be you.

Through the rabbit hole—
how deep does it sway?
Which pill do you take?
Red or blue?
Reality or comfort?
Blurred contrasts of fake existence.

“Drugs are bad,” they scream
from their ivory towers,
judging God’s creation
through man’s corruption.

I was an addict.
I loved to pop pills.
I loved throwing up blood
and waking up in unfamiliar towns,
in strange houses,
sweating,
smelling like shame and stale cigarettes.

Wash that truth down
with your cold beer.
I loved to party.
And addiction loved me back, right?

Did it love the lost souls too?
That’s a loaded question—
barreled with flaws and hollow points.
A hard truth,
etched in scars and injection marks.

Welcome to the family,
fellow black sheep.

We perceive things differently—
hugging them only in ways we know how.
And so, we barely meet halfway.
Still, words are thrown,
beaten,
slitting open wounds that once lay sleeping,
penetrating an abyss
barely concealed by a fragile veil.

Even so, I stand here today—
a sentimental fool, as always,
apprehending every situation that fits,
viewing each one as an opportunity to grow
through experience.

I’m a walking insult.
I’m a *******.
I’m a ******* mistake.

No, that felt too dignifying.

Is that more than what I deserve?

Did that make you laugh?

Your jokes describe me too well.

I nod with every letter said.

I feel my face flush scarlet

So ashamed I change —

real defining clue of myself —

like a snake skin sheds.

I want to be dehumanised.

I  want to be violated

I want them to forget me.

I want to be an empty vessel.

I want to slit my throat.

I don’t want your warm affection.

Now my dreams echo hollow.
Every night, my head against the pillow,
revising every morsel I swallowed,
hoping there is no tomorrow —

As I walk to join the hanging bodies in the gallows.
They laugh and frolic in the sun with their slim waists.

You say I’m kind. Considerate,

but I just want your validation.

I’m a narcissist to the core.

Hope I’m not the bile in your throat,

or the acid that burns your hollow heart.

Did that make you laugh?