"vicodin" poems
I want to taste jealousy on your lips when you kiss me
I want you to know that I don’t ******* need you
That there’s another guy that lives just down the street that would love to **** me any day
I want to feel like you need me to stay.
When you hold me I want to feel like you’ll never let me go
I want to know that you’re afraid of loosening you grip
Afraid that I might slip into the arm of that man down the road.
I want you to fear me.
Fear the power I have over you
The power to leave you if I ******* wanted to
I want you to know that I’m not tied down to you
And I want that to make your body shake
Like an earthquake
Afraid.
I want to feel like I have the power to make you crumble.
You had that power over me once.
Before I remembered that I was just someone for you to ****
Your own personal Vicodin,
Something to make your heart numb to the pain of her leaving you
But now your growing feelings
Becoming attached
But the time for that is past
I've been hallowed out,
***** you’re my toy now.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
You don't see me but I am
There, I have numerous ways
To take you,
Hold you,
Control you,
You'll not even know
I was there,
I am a conqueror of flesh.
Feeling...
Sickly, siphoned, strained
Both body and my brain
Doctor said it's just a cold
Nothing but a passing pain
Is this hypochondria,
Or is there something in my veins?
Your insides are my playground
To cause you much anguish & pain
I'll infect you slowly at first,
Have a little fun within your
Organs
Muscles
Thoughts
I aim to control, invisible
To the eye, but you know
I'm in here, your losing control.
Today I coughed up blood
Cold sweats come in floods
I'm drowning in my own bed
As I clutch my feverish head
There's an inferno in my skull
I'm taking Vicodin to null
Whatever it is eating at me
I know I'll be better in a week.
You apes think size is intelligence,
This was your undoing from the start,
I replicate myself, as its my time to move on,
I leave apart of myself here
As its time too
Infect
Multiple
Spread
My gift to those around,
You sneezed
You coughed
Upon your sweat, I am
Now on everything you touch,
Time to end the play,
"Business calls"
Be Proud of your self
Patient Zero, dear human
You were my first,
But its time for me to move on...
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
Hey kid, you've been dead a few weeks and I'd just like to say hello. The ground has its first December coat of fragile snow over your dead body and I know you can't feel the cold but I'll tell you right now, I can see my frozen toes, just barely move them, breathe up into the sky, Id be lying if I said I still cry every day. But, I'm lying to myself if I said that I'm not trying to take back your pain every day in a way that won't make your heart start beating again.
I wonder if those butterflies ever drank up the nectar from your blood, probed their soft tongues into the velvet of your cuts, those razor blade ribbons, oh holy romantic, how you bleed like Mozart and bleed like ballads of classic rock stars, how they whip your face with sour sweat and drugs and drugs and drugs until you find yourself half asleep, brain swept under the rug.
Did you know only 1.5% of drug overdose related suicide attempts are successful? Beautiful blonde martyr for an ugly catholic high school in an ugly state in the ugliest of its hearts, how does it feel to be 1 in 100? How does it feel to be a rarity, carbon pressed into diamond? How does it feel to be cry for a week, left in the grass to roll like waves, buried without a name and a face and a grave?
In the latest of solemn sleep deprived nights I press my ear to the chest of the 100th depressed boy I come across and don't feel Vicodin climbing up his arteries, don't feel Klonopin, OxyContin, Ibuprofen. I can't seem to find the one, who knows, maybe you were it and all my efforts really were wasted. All those nights I've stayed up late did nothing. All those knives I stole, all that blood I wiped away with t-shirt sleeves, all the blankets I've put around stupid shaking shoulders, all the bittersweet will this be the last time your skin is this warm hugs, God did they mean nothing at all?
I lock my jaw into a permanent silence, buy back time by putting my money where your knife is. I take bets on when someone will die next. I read the label on every bottle of Xanax. I roll over in my bed again and again, and try to put you to rest again.
Amen.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
I hadn't heard from you in a while, so last night I humored the notion of you, intrigued.
You asked me how I was, high off your *** on Vicodin.
Drunk off my *** on red wine, I admitted I wasn't doing
So well.
So, well,
We spoke for a while, and I admitted a lot of
****
Well, ****
More than you bargained for,
I'm sure.
So sure,
You called me out on my mistakes like you always have:
Telling me that I was far too lovely,
To be so ******* lonely
That I would waste such a beautiful side of myself,
In so willingly giving so much of myself
Away.
And in a way,
I know that you're
right;
And I can't just pretend I'm
alright.
I need to buck up and make all things
right.
Holy **** what a night.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 11:48 AM UTC
I remove my shoes beside my bed;
Morning comes,
I trip and fall
And bust my head.
What a terrible place for shoes!
Evening comes and I sit down in my room
After working like a ******* idiot slave.
I remove my shoes,
But I feel the pain...
So I throw my shoes across the room.
Morning comes again;
I make my way to the bathroom
And before I know anything
I'm on the ground.
What a terrible place for shoes!
The day drags on as
Headaches and embarrassment
Follow me around throughout my daily adventures.
They laugh at me and grind my cells
So I take a few vicodin.
The day comes to an end and
In my opiated stupor
I remove my shoes and
Leave them by my bedside
Once again.
Morning comes
And I'm on the ground
For the third time.
This is it.
I've had enough.
No more ******* shoes
In the house.
I train myself to leave
All shoes in the front hall.
This should do the trick.
I wake up the next morning
And all the shoes are gone!
Christ... I must have forgotten to
Lock the front door.
**** kids...
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
Day One:
A voice speaks to me.
When you realize that being lost is so close to being found, you see a sea of family members plagued within the lineage of licentious newborns and hospital beds. You become yourself, a lisp.
Day Two:
Long ago in a city left unscorned he was torn, from the cokeheads and colorful regimes, angels sing long songs of separation anxiety and **** withdrawal. I was torn from the deadbeats of supposed society and three day vicodin trips into my mind. So can you let me know when I get there? ‘Cause I left there running…I wonder, did someone ever tell you that two strangers could twist around your neck at beck and that three parked cars and seventeen lonely nights could haunt you for the rest of your faces.
Day Three:
Tell me of your drug induced hallucinations.
Day Four:
Wait. Hear. Can’t you listen to the relapse? Stop, think. No. gone. Left. Love. Return. My curious addiction. Go back into yourself and listen. Can’t you hear your soul call to me? It’s loud.
Day Five:
I remember prizes at the bottoms of cereal boxes, right before the net broke. Will you be first? Snap back to reality.
It’s dark in here. Wretch from me… I am crying, screaming,
haha! I’m melting inside!
Day Six:
By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower, but the seed inside
Caked over in grief, we are not plates that match. But fools of folly caught in a sea of coke and disillusioned discord. Speed stands between directing and orders to death’s soldiers.
Day Seven:
The difference between God and his counterpart is that he makes exceptions!
Except me.
Day Eight:
Accept me!
Please.
Wait.
No.
don’t slow,
speed.
I can only take so much forgiveness,
is a decision, and I cannot make it.
I am without it, leave me breathless.
Day Nine:
The angel of death waits
He comes for me, but I am running, finding, hiding my inner Nemo in the hands of oxycodon, privileged in the amenities of amphetamines.
I am tired of running!
Haggard.
Take away my hands, my restraints.
Let me feel
again.
Please.
Day Ten:
I am awake.
There is an apple in my field of vision.
Kiss it. Love it.
Take it to hedonism and back again.
But it knows too much.
So tell it everything will be ok.
It lives in epilepsy.
So placate it.
Resurrect my apocalypse.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
There lived a man in Shady Hills,
sits home all day, popping pills.
Morning, noon and night,
not any real food in sight.
Drinks water from the tap,
too wired to take a nap.
Percocets all **** day,
Vicodin is the only way.
Xanax in the night time,
****** he buys for a dime.
Oxycontin, he keeps hidden,
his hiding spot is forbidden.
Takes Abilify for his mood swings,
taking Amphetamines gives him wings.
More skinny than a rail,
in life he sure did fail.
Ecstasy, he keeps under lock and key,
he doesn't give away any pills for free.
At thirty he ended up with cirrhosis of the liver,
he didn't care about his new founded quiver.
Popped pills til his death,
at least he never smoked ****
Died at the age of thirty two,
in his stomach was pill stew.
Just another sad lost soul,
popping pills will someday take a toll.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
I’m trapped in a room where the door is open but I can’t get out,
I’m screaming my head off but no one can hear me shout,
I’m struggling to breathe but there’s plenty of oxygen,
I crave an escape from this concrete metropolitan,
Blinded by this plastic smile they can’t see I’m stuck in my own personal hell,
I’m walking around frantically trying to get someone to notice that I’m an empty shell,
Tragically, I’m physically heathy with food to eat and a family yet I can’t seem to stop thinking about ending myself,
What’s wrong me, that I can’t be happy when I literally have nothing to be sad about?
But that’s the thing the numbness, you can’t stop it, it doesn’t discriminate,
It doesn’t care whether your a man, a women, a criminal, or a saint,
It just wants to fill you up till you can’t get out of bed,
It makes you a prisoner inside your own head,
Who could I tell? How would I explain it so someone could understand when I don’t even understand,
When I’ve succumbed to the madness who will lend me their hand ?
So I don’t tell anyone & suffer in silence, when the thoughts start creeping up again,
I smother them in cigarette smoke wishing I had prescription for Xanax or Vicodin.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 2:12 AM UTC
anxiety: my heart wakes me up, tattooing irregular beats against
my ribs, pulse racing, breath shaking. i cannot tell
if this is real or psychosomatic. these days,
i think about death all the time,
no longer by suicide. now, i am
an accident waiting to happen,
fragile from years of misuse &
neglect. the shallow inhales
of my lungs tell me
i am not okay.
depression: this is a gray day. i swallow my meds even though
they take away my mania. so i drink black coffee until my mind
races itself in circles, chasing its tail like a rabid dog.
i keep the razors hidden in my sock drawer,
just in case.
anorexia: my ribs ****** forward from my skin again, the sharp
protrusion of my bones beginning to show through. i am eating
but drinking my weight in water
& mainlining caffeine to keep my metabolism high & my weight
low. i am still child-sized & i don't want to grow.
they lift me easily with their arms & marvel
at my featherweight body.
the compliments i get only make me
eat less.
self-harm: on the days when i am low, i trace
the silver stretch of scars scattered over my skin
with a yearning for a blade between my fingers
just one last time. i swear to you, the bleeding is over,
but i need to know
i am still brave
enough
to hold a sharp edge against my flesh
& press down,
hard.
addiction: a month ago,
i downed four adderall in one sitting,
luxuriating in the heady rush & lack of pain,
the quiet & the calm.
when i lived at home, i stole
my mother's vicodin & took the whole bottle.
i'm not sorry.
when the boy who only cared about ******* me
offered mdma for free,
i accepted, but i shouldn't have trusted him
to keep me safe,
blacking out on his kitchen
floor.
drink red wine to forget
my insecurity, inhale
thick, sweet smoke to feel
some semblance of happy,
drag on cigarettes
down to their filters
until i feel properly
alive.
all i want is to be better, but
where to begin?
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
tick, tick, tick
goes the clock
so I turn and turn
but nothing feels right
1, 2, 3am again
just me, alone with my thoughts
the world is silent and still
except for my lonely friend
at least the clock never sleeps
maybe it’s better this way
when I close my eyes my thoughts fill with you
the way you smiled at me
and put your arms around my waist
the way you held my face between your hands
as if I was the last thing you were ever going to touch
but I turned away, for just a moment
and you were gone
and then I remember that you’re never coming back
so I stay awake
because at least when I’m awake
the memories don’t feel as real
I can even push them out
maybe if I drown you in tequila
or smother you with vicodin
I can forget you one day
maybe I can get some sleep
one day
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 4:21 AM UTC
She thinks of nobody but herself
But still her bedrooms filled with nails she falls
And always seems to land on her wrist
Gashes a centimeter wide she needs stitches she needs to call an ambulance
She'll bleed out! God ****** she'll bleed out!
But she's not ready to die yet so she stitches herself back up
Hoping she hasn't drained too much
Because she loves the sting the reason she lives is for the sting
And the DRUGS
PILLS: Oxy, Percocet, Vicodin, Demerol
She sniffs them she snorts them she even ******* chews them!
She'll do anything as long as she can float
She won't admit it but she loves life she loves the drugs
And pain and abuse that come with life
She loves the pain, oh god **** she loves the pain
So she stitches herself back up she doesn't want to die
Repeat repeat she does it again
Dripping on the kitchen tile but this time is different
This time she's forgotten about the drugs and the pain
She's focused on her wrist and her wrist and her wrist and her blade
Too deep, she's gone too deep again
But she doesn't care she's not stitching herself back up
She's ready to die with not enough drugs and
Too much pain
She's ready to leave this world behind
Ready to leave the pills
Don't leave me don't leave me
I love you I love you
Grab the needle, please get the thread
Please just stitch yourself back up stitch yourself back up
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC
what are you addicted to?
What you on?
Oxycoton?
Percoset?
Methadone?
Vicodin?
****
Xanax
Diesel
Dope?
Krocodil?
or...
Just jack and ****
they tell me *** is dangerous...
I have nothing today
and so much things to say
Did your best friend get shot 72 times on
Thursday?
On the woodpile
or
In the passenger seat?
Wife take everything
And leave you
After 30 years?
You homeless now?
Or just broke-in.
Did Your wife die:
An intentional dose of an incidentally fatal
Dope?
Did you husband-
An engineer for Ford Motor company
Get burned alive?
black
Was it you
who
found the ashes?
Did they throw you in prison
For your depression?
You have addictions
And a little help
But no music-
Ipods
are not allowed here
and
You are grasping at existence but
existance
don't seem to know you
no-more
Your still breathing
Though
You haven't failed at existence itself
yet
Impulsive
destructive
What chemicals are they feeding you
In your cages?
T.T. has 17
medications but
she almost got killed last night
Because she's allergic
to aspirin.
Are they treating you with
Risperdal?
Or
Lamictal like me?
Is it helping-
or making it ten times worse?
making
any difference at all?
It's called practice and we are
the test-tube
Jon's heart has been in defib 8-times
twice due to accidental overdoses
by doctors
We can have too-many
anything.
I don't believe in accidents
though
no more.
seen-too many
felt-too much
You self-admitted and
at least your still breathing
this place is full of madness but here at 1-east
we're still dreaming.
pax 2013
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
A is for Almost, how much I tried
B is for Barely, how I survived
C is for Clearly I'm feeling worn thin
D is I'm Dying inside of this skin
E is for Every, the days that feel worst
F is for Fear, the unbearable curse
G is for Guttural, forth from which sorrow boasts
H is for Happy, what I long for the most
I is for how I am screaming Inside
J for how I long to feel Justified
K is for Knowing that none of it's real
L is the Love that I no longer feel
M is Misanthropic, Macabre, Morose
N is I'm Not okay, Not even close
O for the thoughts that become Obfuscated
P is for all of the People I've hated
Q is for the always unanswered Question
R, from the ones I hold dearest, Rejection
S is the Solitary Silence I Seek
T is Trying to fight when I'm weak
U, feeling Ugly, outside and in
V is the whole bottle of Vicodin
W is Working through Panic attacks
X is the whole bottle of Xanax
Y is for You, the only light that I see
Z is the Zeal for life you've brought back to me
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
unwrap my ribs. carefully,
like a present you've been waiting for
since october.
smooth out the wrinkles
along my forehead, sip
the lines from my palms.
write letters to constellations
along my marked calves, and
stain my upraised mouth with
new words that don't
belong to me. sketch
characters inside my
elbows and draw their faces
down my stomach.
take a microscope to the pores
between my vertebrae, set
original sentiments and
grow them carefully. look through
my corneas like window-panes
shattered by heat from
a church fire. clean
the bridge of my nose of
headaches and bottles and bottles
of asprin, vicodin and something
nameless and strong.
snap my tibiae over your knee,
assemble a tired face,
put it over a mask, tie the
words to my lips and send
me out into the world a refreshed,
taken individual.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 11:20 AM UTC
Smells like the smoke coming from the 24-hour 711 next to the fright train
like the walk home from the part time job past the house he used to live in
like the cookies we made but never ate
like guilt slipping from cover
like I almost let it show
Sounds like daddy's cancer
like driving on the freeway with no music
like not speaking
like I don't know how to
like every ride home from the hospital
like the fireworks we lit a few months back in our front yard
like the mistakes I called choices
Feels like the first boy I let have me vulnerable
like the meeting of hand to face
like shaking shoulders into apology
like the forgiveness crawling from his lips
like my tongue unfurling with remorse coming too easy
like my voice echoing I'm sorry
like it is something I will always be
Tastes like swallowing a pill backwards
like Fireball mixed with the thick of cough syrup
like holding back a ****** nose
like vicodin dust between broken teeth
like waiting for another winter
Looks like leaving the front door open for the air to come in
like the snow building a cast around our insecurities
like it's never been this cold before
like this Chicago is a stranger we never loved
like the ****** he tried just once
like how once can be enough to **** us
like all the questions we never got answered
like when will the branches stop cracking?
what makes a flame keep growing?
and why are these memories still
breathing?
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
Let me go in the Dark
I want to be in there
In the space of corpulent, infectious glands
Swallowing innocence with labyrinthine hands
Let me be one with the Night
My home is over there
In a place of ubiquitous fears
And a plethora of basking tears
Let me soak in the abyss
The void is so near
A comely figure,
an evocative sadist and protégé
Dripping candle wax on me
in San Lorenzo, Paraguay
Let me walk among ghosts
In the Portal Del So hotel
Tossing back Xanax;
Vicodin with a liquor chaser
Gin and vermouth, *****
anything to forget her.
Let me wait in living purgatory
With other pods of skin
When the wind shakes the barley,
back home
Where a wife and son
never left me alone.
Let me go in the dark
Past the tortured guilt and sorrow
Where a family is made of flesh
and not ash
Where a house remains
and the fires don’t last
Let me cry and weep in silence
In a room with rotting drapes
A static-channel TV,
a two blade ceiling fan
People engulfed in one another,
A demon for a man
Let me shower in cold, thickening blood
Standing atop broken medicine cabinet glass
So many packs a day of cheap cigarettes
and loose women
None ease the pain
like the morphine in the kitchen.
Let me go into the chasm
The vein snake is thirsty.
I take a little more each time it feeds
But maybe not waking up
is what the snake needs
Let me sleep in the dark
While infomercials for prayer play
Juxtaposed to a zealous vagabond
and father
The last serpentine dosage
for a broken martyr
Let me go in the dark
Let me see them again
I’ll wait and watch the room shrink
And hope my eyes
never dilatorily blink.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
Life is a sticky
Honey sweet
Mess
Rotten
Yellow teeth
Haunting me
But not from ****
Powdered dreams
Snorting sinus cleaning
I never did that line
But I was still a ******
Getting high
On time
Pill popping
Pain pusher
In prose and poetry
I tapped that vein
Till no blood remained
Till the **** stains
Claimed my pain
Private person
Open window
The cold wind
Would not let me go
A hundred ephedrine pills
To **** my heart
Cold sweats
Anxiousness
And I could not ***
But worse of all
I could not go
Could not sleep
Could not rest
Could not die
Though I did my best
Teeth chipped
Broken calcium
Black cavity
Shallow but painful
And Vicodin
And Vicodin
Till I had to sell them
To my suicidal friend
And Monster drinks
And five hour energy
To write
To work
To stay alert
But the worse addiction
I ever knew
Was pain
Waking every day
Never knew withdrawal
Every day a brand new pain
Every night a brand new poem
I never killed the ******
He just rode me from one high
To the next
I never killed the ******
Even though I wanted to
I never had the gun
Or the ******
The rope or razor blade
Or the ****
I never killed the ******
Even though I wanted
That son of ***** dead
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
Your life is linear, but your mind is sporadic.
You could be anyone, anywhere.
Time stands still.
Suddenly you're seven.
Tugging on your mother's floral print dress and begging her for ice cream money.
Time speeds up.
Suddenly you're behind a register trying not to laugh at the bitter old man cursing you to the seventh layer of Hell for your purple hair and tattoos.
Time freezes.
Suddenly your ten and your mother is shaking you.
She wants to know, *where is her son?
Where has her baby boy gone?*
It's the middle of the night and she won't stop shaking you.
She stares out your window and mumbles something about drugs.
But you don't know what drugs are and it's three in the morning.
You're ten.
You blink twice and click your heels.
Suddenly you're sitting behind a desk,
And the school system is trying to tell you how to feel.
You don't buy into it, but you learned early on that fighting them will get you no where.
You play the game.
A snap of your fingers and once more you're seven,
And your mother is making you swear.
Not the "f" bomb or the "c" word.
No, she's making you say something much worse than that.
Swear you won't tell your father about the man she kissed on the park bench.
But you're only seven so the words flood out of your mouth.
Before you can even finish your story,
Your father smacks your jaw so hard that your head spins forward until you've turned fourteen.
Fourteen, and now you know exactly what drugs are
And why your brother does them so much.
Fourteen, and you hate your mother for making you lie,
And you hate your father for punishing the truth.
Fourteen, and the only way you can cope with all of the ******** that's written in the fine print of being a teenager is to annihilate your brain cells.
The memories swirl around and all you want to do is burn them down, but there's no more matches and the butane's run dry.
It's all happening in flashes.
Christmas cookies.
Late term papers.
Igloos.
Glass bottles smashed to pavement.
The day you got contacts.
Flip flops.
The icy chill of pumpkin guts on your skin.
Her overdose.
Hot tea.
New York.
London.
Maui.
LSD.
Alcohol.
Vicodin.
It all whizzes by, and you barely know who you are anymore.
Or where you've gone.
Or who you've disappointed.
And these people are still trying to tell you how to feel.
And then you're dead.
And all the memories add up, but it's not enough to fill your coffin.
There's all this space floating around.
All of those lives you could have lived if you just stopped for a moment.
Stopped letting them tell you how to feel.
Such a waste.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
"Billie Jean is not my lover."
But she tells me differently
In private.
Now, however, there's a baby
Carrying her impulsive libido
Inside of it.
A matryoshka of folly
Long nights of Texas ***** and blow
Multiple partners, that's fine, just tell me!
But please let your other suitors know
That you aren't the only one
Carrying their load.
My heart sunk, believe me,
When I drove over to your house.
And it pained me to see
Your face, for the first time,
Unable to make an expression.
One, two, three vicodin
Four, five, six at a time
Seven concluded your session.
I found you wandering the eerily-still
Streets,
Even though it was a beautiful afternoon.
I love you so much, but please...
Don't die. I'm not in the mood.
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 4:09 PM UTC
I’m convinced that someone’s hacked into my head
and deleted the part of my brain that controls my concentration.
Because at times, I have the attention span of the goldfish who just downed a bottle of vicodin.
See, my brain is a livewire lined with high-voltage power lines of dreams and ideas,
and I can’t shut off all the switches and relays flooding messages to my nervous system,
because what I have is a nervous system.
Every caustic, worried thought that I’ve ever thought tends to show up there,
and all I ever do is worry about how one wrong word might end a relationship,
or how one right word could start a new friendship,
or how everything that I keep reading into,
is just bleeding into everything else,
mixing colors,
while I’m sitting here…
forgetting to take the time to paint with my passions and prides.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 11:42 AM UTC
Synapses are firing,
The pain is being processed,
Where has it started?
Endorphins are released,
The pain killer is searching for the source.
How silly, this system,
It cannot recognize this kind of pain,
The source is not inside,
but outside,
The source is all around me,
The pain of humanity,
and no amount of vicodin,
or endorphins,
Can stop it,
or calm it.
It is there, infinite,
Consuming me.
I am silent in this moment,
As I use all my senses to quiet the world,
I force myself back into my body.
There, I can believe, in only myself.
There, I can ignore,
The pain.
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 9:40 PM UTC
After your death
I'm rummaging through the drawers
for your bottle of Vicodin
hoping your ghost
isn't watching.
Why can I never stay clean?
Is it because I'm weak?
I see myself like your husband
in 20 years
a tired young drunk
sick of feeling old,
who died before his grandchildren
were even born.
I hear footsteps in the kitchen
and wonder if it's you
hiding them from me —
but I hear lots of things
when the floor beneath me
crumbles
and I'm left dangling
from my barbed sanity
with ****** hands.
I swore I'd keep it locked away,
this heirloom of addiction,
but right now I need to hold it
and feel it
because I miss you
and I'm not strong enough to accept the fact
that you're gone
just yet.
So far this is the only moment
I've told myself you're not here,
when I find and swallow the last
three pills
that couldn't stop your pain,
then wash them down with gin
that wasn't enough
to stop mine.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 3:44 AM UTC
Dear Headache,
I see you're back again,
like you think that I'm your friend.
Like you think I enjoy your company.
Well, let me tell ya somethin', honey.
You need to go the **** away,
and don't come back another day.
The only time I let you in,
You're my excuse to eat a Vicodin.
No love,
Irene Saylor
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 6:55 PM UTC
fractured limbs/fragile lugs/soft-skinned dreams/sweet slow dances
loving you is like spilling gold out of my veins, like rose hips soft and shivering under warm fingertips. being yours is you being mine, but always reaching for you to be more.
in my stomach are glistening oceans, and my swallowed pride the size of vicodin pills. a small town girl's high on love and laying in her bed.
lilting laughter/lovely lights/revival of language & direction/return of lucid daydreams
you are my first thought when i wake, and my last when i fall asleep. i'm so very in love with you. the more days i spend being your girl, the more i want to be with you.
i always want to be where you are. my head on your shoulder, you rest your head on top of mine. we're holding hands, and it's like we fold into each other like russian dolls.
comfortable skin/crushed sapphire/lovers blessed/lush bones
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 2:17 PM UTC
Home was having my best friend
hold my hair back
because I'd had one too many shots.
Home was listening to him
play a combination of notes
that told the stories of lovers' pasts.
Home was kissing a beautiful dark-haired girl
and laughing because
her saliva tasted like sativa.
Home was a place of sunshine,
peasant skirts, reggae.
Boys covered in dreadlocks smiling up at me from their yoga.
Home was falling asleep
on Vicodin
and sadness.
but now I am just lost.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC