I did it. I found it myself in a strange city and I remain unscathed. On the way to buy was scary. My heart raced and I got all sweaty considering the possibility I'd get murdered by this guy. The boy had scars on his face and mats in his hair and sadness in his eyes. But later, when he got his shot, he brightened. He laughed and talked. He let me choose from three cellophane wrapped grey rocks. "Since you bought them all, really," he said. I chose mine and gripped it in my hand until my knuckles paled. I walked the city with it in my purse, tucked away in a cigarette box. I told myself I'd wait out the sickness and try it on the bus. But two hours later I couldn't wait anymore. I walked to a drug store for razorblades and considered stealing them. But I found a crumpled up $5 in my pocket. My next destination was the Circle Center Mall. I rushed to the bathroom, excitement about to pour out of me in the form of vomit. I laid out all my normal instruments on the baby changing station. Admiring all of my things. My things that made me who I am. I'm a junkie. I sniffed it and laid on the floor in euphoria until I almost missed my bus. I'd been slapped in the face by my first serious girlfirend and her name was heroin.
Where /did/ you sleep last night. I waited. You never lied, but you hid. I thought things were good. Sicky sweet, sticky secrets passed between your gasps of air while you choke on all my love. Did I suffocate you? Did I suffocate you? You asked me to know you forever, but when I woke up you were gone.
I'm having a spiritual experience on the center of the Brooklyn Bridge at 6am. Kurt's guitar solo dawned right as my tiny frailness was swallowed whole by its steampunk mouth. I LIVE HERE.
Why don't I hate him? Why can't I despise his cracked, druggy brain instead of marvel if like the magnificent relic it is. Blow my brains out to clear my mind of you. Put little boys in my sinus to forget what you were even like. I wish I never even taught my mind your name. I wish I never showed my eyes your face. I wish I never loved you. Be like October and vanish.
heroin heroin heroin heroin heroin heroin heroin heroin heroin
I don't really remember what happy is like anymore because I conflate it with high. I wish I could be alone with her. That's all I ever want. She never leaves my mind. I love her more than anything. My parents, my friends, maybe only my dog wins. Maybe I'll OD all alone and stop wasting space and resources to keep my junkie ass alive.
Wind chimes moan when touched by the breeze of a dope- filled pick up truck Xanax slumbers interrupted by dope sick fucks. Indiana's all vomit in wicker baskets, prescription-flavored kisses and dope-addicted baby caskets. Summer never fucked me like it did in indy the only place where meth and roxxies are trendy. Lost punk boys and puppy dogs dirty rigs and bathtub clogs.
It's been awhile since I've written anything. I tried to break up with my 'girlfriend' till I realized how impossible it is to see myself without her(oin). I relapsed in the quiet oasis of sanctituted known as my home bathroom. I met someone. He's ghost-like. Unattainable. Strange and spontaneous and kind. Also he fingered me and I came 5 times. I wouldn't mind a life of junkie opulence with him. Drug-scoring duo by night, hedonistic fuck lounging in the light of heroin by day. Don't disappear on me.
Twinkling synth plays as we wander the streets of Brooklyn inappropriately dressed. Count your money and hug me under a waterfall of orange.
It was insane to walk through this parted sea of EMPTY ASS BUILDINGS that rich people own for fun while I shivered sickly on the ground. Rich people don't even have human brains. They're robots with like 2007 AI.
I'm in Mcdonald's at fuck me o'clock am and I just "slept" outside for a couple of hours and then barely in Grand Central before being kicked out. I feel like I'll never not be cold again. The whole of my skin is chilled. I'm dopesick and frustrated and tired. At least he's here with me. Or I'm with him. IDK I think I love him or whatever jeez. I'll let you know if I ever stop being cold.
I want to be doing something. I feel realy stagnant. The things I want seem even more unattainable than usual. I regret moving here most days. Things in Indiana had no direction but they were steady. No one can afford for me to live this way anymore.
Drown me in your spoon, I wanna get caught in your veins, give you cotton fever, please dont amputate. Keep me forever trapped inside your phone. Lets get clean together, but maybe push off when we get home. But I love you I love you I swear it's not the drugs. I love you I love you and our homeless hugs.
I got here at 6:40am because I was told it was first come first serve. I filled out paperwork and was told to sit. As I waited for the next three hours, people started to leave. One man took out an entirely full syringe of dope and banged it in the hospital waiting room. He would shoot up five times over the full eight hours I waited. The staff was horribly unhelpful in the waiting room. No one could tell me why I was waiting for so long or how much longer it'd be. I was booked and allowed some personal items. I'm sick out of my mind. They toldme if my quarters to make calls get stolen it's on me and gave me dry turkey on stale bread. I haven't stopped vomitting since 10am. Going to call the boy in a few hours when they let me. I miss him. I hope he's proud of me. Medicated at 9pm-15mg methadone
Reasons I'm getting clean
I want beautiful, painfully boring normalcy. I want the mundane to be glowing and sparkly and happy. I wanna marry him on a beach. I wanna make dinner late at night and talk and watch shitty movies. I want excitement without drugs. I want boring jobs, I want to make him breakfast in bed. I want a life.
It's so beautiful outside. I wish I could be there instead of here. They transfer me to rehab on wednesday. I haven't thought about dope like at all, I don't think. I'm not broken. A man today told me he was molested when he was four years old and it was the best day of his life. I sort of feel that. The boy is going into the city today, and he's definitely lying about why. I want to believe him. I want to believe he'll stay clean. I should go back to Indiana.
Someone snuck a cigarette in and I planned to smoke it with my new friend. But somehow someone caught wind. They gave me a lot of shit in front of everyone and I cried. I'm so embarrassed. They told the staff lies. Fuck this shit. I feel so uncomfortable. I hate this. I want to die. I did this to myself. To be in here, with strangers. I didn't do anything wrong. For once in my life, I didn't do anything wrong. Fuck dope.
They moved me to rehab. The walls are very purple. My roommate loves dogs a little too much. Having some trouble sleeping without the methadone. But I got to hear a speaker today, and that was good social interaction.
When I was young, I sang. I'm not sure why, but I sang. Ever since I can remember I'd feel this small build up of creative energy that had to be released, and the easiest most accessible way to release it was with singing. I idolized musicians, but I never saw myself to be like them. I just sang to sing. I thought famous people were almost a different species. And in some ways, they are. Their luck has aligned just so. Maybe they were in the same town and place as The Melvins. But 2017 is a stale time for music. Fame and general musical success is carefully orchestrated, a product of the excelsius elite. It's not to be accessed by the regular american unless they jump through the hoops. We're past the time of small grunge groups gaining traction. But that's not the music the world's youth wants or needs right now anyway. And I guess that's fine. I just don't know where it leaves me. I guess here, flipping through my angsty drug-soaked poetry and remember a time when I was sure it would happen.
"Just stay out of trouble" eyes rolling on a nicotine gum bubble. Rotting, sickly sweet all over me. I'm so tired of all the pee. What's weather? Fuck if I know. Soft, purple, sparkling glow. I'm an addict, I'm an addict, I'm an addict. Sucking away on my mother's meth filled tit. Powerless over dope, manic pixie trope. Bitter and piss poor, choking at the NA door. Sick and tired of being sick and tired. But sick and tired is all I know. Just damn me now, pump me full of suboxone.
Sometimes, especially in here, all of the sudden worms enter through my pores. Evil, bad intentioned worms, birthed from the thick, sticky webs of desperation and miserability that hang like stalagtites from the hospital ceiling. They pierce through and they squirm, unsettled, underneath my paper skin. I want so badly to tear back the paper and rip them out in handfulls. But I can't hurt myself to try to restore my comfort. That's what I used to do, put poison up my nose to try to kill the worms inside. And it worked at first, but they become immune. The counselors here think they've figured it out. They pry our mouths open and dump in buckets of metal glitter meant to bring light to our insides, but instead it scraped our throats. Leaving behind a sparkling mass of lacerated meat. But sometimes they provide you with cups of cool soothing liquid to wash away the phony metal pieces and soothe the wounds their attempts of forced spirituality left us with. What they don't realize is we need to be bathed in the sparkles, have it dumped over our heads, stuck in our eyelashes and the fibres of our sweaters. The buckets need loud, brightly colored "not for human consumption" labels on them. That's all. But I don't have it completely figured out. Dope fills the holes but it has knives on the back that stab me when I push it into place. Which used to be perfect for my chronically preached masochism. But now I'm fiendishly applying salve, and placing and replacing pink band-aids. Though, the wound seethes and oozes, unaided by my futile attempts to induce healing. The 12 step program is like a permanent sca, covering the wound from further festering, but never replacing the glistening, baby smooth skin that once stood there.
Dog, grant me the serenity to accept the fucks I don't give, the courage to change my underwear, and the wisdom to get fingered in central park.
Being an addict is really tiring, man. Rehab is hard. Really hard. I dunno it's more than living in a hospital and trudging to groups. It's being reminded of all the shit and piss and vomit I've waded through that landed me here EVERYDAY. It's being looked down upon because I like getting high.
I dunno I just feel like I've seen and heard enough of the program. It's the same shit every fucking day and you know there's only so much to be learned from the daily regurgitation. It feels like I'm in a time warp. Stuck, slowly wading through minutes like a bog. I'm going to call U***** tomorrow.
Capitalism is a soulless wasteland paraded as an equal opportunity at the cotton candy coloured log of shit nightmare aptly named "the American dream". It's all a lie. Every "touching" commerical with definitely plaigarized, exhaustedly recycled piano music was created by sociopaths, using our glorious emotions to wring us of our hard-earned toilet paper currency. They take your money and, in turn, promise you happiness riding on the backs of candy coloured plastics and the general annexation of useless junk. But behind it all are a handful of folk, gazing upon the zeroes in their bank accounts while others freeze to death outside rehab doors. I love NYC but I also feel bile rise in my throat when the obnoxious ligts of Time Square momentarily mystify my monkey brain. My whole life, young junkie moves to NYC and gets clean and successful, is so cliche my teeth hurt. Fuck me. I want to rip the toenails off the Waltons. I hate rich people and everything they have to offer. Long live women of color. Long live the troubled, leftwing youth struggling to be heard under the regime of our billionaire president.
My friend left me with a cigarette, so that's a glimmer of hope. My new roommate is pretty cool. She used to be a whale watcher over in Washington state. She says the world's largest Octopus is in Puget Sound, under some bridge. 26 foot long tentacles. Gnarly.
I wish life were beautiful. I wish people were nice. I wish everyone thought like me and my friends. I wish shitty people would shut the fuck up. I wish I were better at everything. I wish I could do heroin without ruining my life. I wish the people I liked liked me back. I wish I were as cool as I acted. I wish I weren't weak. I wish I could have known Kurt. I wish I didn't still think about my ex. I wish I weren't such a bitch. I wish I didn't assume the worst. I wish I knew if people loved me. I wish I didn't cry so much. I wish I could believe in god. I was there was a possibility I be as successful as I want to be. I hate myself and want to die. I wish I were actually dumb.
A friend of mine is getting real unhealthy in here. This place is insane. I don't understand how any of this is legal. I want to rip my hair out. I need a cigarette. I want physical affection. I feel like I'm stuck in a weird ass nightmare. I want to expose this place but I'm like 1/4 of a working human.
Wanna explore your sleepy head. Wish I knew what it was like in your bed. Probing, knowing, poking fun. I just want to make you come. With me to dream land, hold my brain inside your hand.
I get out tomorrow. I guess I'm ready. But relapse feels so closeby. Hope I get to see newnew boy first thing. This is the last I write from this bed.
I got interviewed in Union Square and I feel like a celebrity. I love NYC so much....I spent the rest of today with newnew boy and it was amazing. I hope we spend a lot more time together. Going to meetings and such.