I Am Forgotten Emotions.

A sacrifice in the park

to the pigs with their guns

searching boys in the dark, I beg forgiveness for you—

you are sent home;

meanwhile, I am jailed over and over,

spending a night of Police harassment with a head full of acid,

each time you slide your access card

to the places where you

wouldn’t be allowed in otherwise.

I am your forgotten emotions.

Now you, that first lover,

I am the pain in your heart—

those scars left behind from a series of kisses,

a gentle touch, the words I love you are

over and over, carved inside its walls

reminding you of the sacrifice we made

in order to keep your youthful allowances,

each day I wonder, was it worth it?

I am our forgotten emotions.

I carry the numb places in your memory

where once shone the abscesses of childhood trauma

which removed and dissected for you

keeping you sane through hell and back,

are then swallowed and absorbed in this psychic

vessel, burrowed to purify deep inside.

I am your forgotten emotions, watch them as we bloom.

I’m here to remind you,

you, the one with the pedigree,

that I remember how you walked up to the bar

during our friends birthday party, you were dressed

like the beautiful whore we all know you are,

flirted with me, then said “Gosh, I’m mean!” giggling to yourself,

walking away laughing, I was a joke to you,

but I never laughed—

when your story was something to listen to,

when my shoulder was all I had to offer you,

and your broken heart was all I meant to mend.

I am your forgotten emultion.

I am the nexus of abhorrence, your loathing,

something to talk about over a beer—

another one of the horrible people,

keeping your friendships glued together,

kindling for your hatred,

when you can’t talk shit about one another

in fear that in turn each will know the truth,

you, with the faces like revolving doors.

This is for you.

To each and every one of you—

I am the louse in the corner,

the weirdo in black,

the one you’ve all turned to when no one would listen!

Look here, don’t advert your eyes,

I am here to remind you

that once your emotions were real,

not make believe, nor shadows of their former selves.

I am the luxury of forgetting

passed around a table

full of empty rotating faces

all stuck drinking from bottomless places.

but now I am no more for you or any of them,

you’ll have to face the truth of each other,

Adieu.

Trying

I waited to throw out the cigarette butts with your lipstick on them. I just couldn't bring myself to before, but now it's no biggie. I guess it's my way of cutting it out of me.

On Moons and other stuff.

Time weighs heavy and yet people still dance to old routines. It would be nice to actually find someone "different" for a change, all the wrong echoes, all the wrong flags, and the blind following on the tail of the devil. M-O-O-N: that spells torture, a Chinese finger trap and a packet of fags, don't get smoke in your eye.

Good-Bye's: A juxtaposition.

There she is,
blonde hair and painted up face
with her beautifully crooked smile,
her soft eyes peering through the crowds.

"Where is he? He's not here.
Good.
Now I may resume life."

There he is,
black hair and painted up skin
with his beautifully crooked spine,
his bright eyes peering through the clouds.

"Here I am. She's not near.
Good.
Now I may start life."

Songs of Velvet inundate her ears
as warmth fills the back of her skull,
she collapses onto her bed–
dreaming of days long before.

"I rest my head upon my pillow.
Tired."

Songs' Folds inundate his ears
as cold mountain breezes brush his skin,
he rises from the stairs–
walking with carefully calculated steps.

"I lift my head into the sunlight.
Alive."

Good Ridance

I guess it's futile. You say I don't know my feelings, well I know my emotions well enough to be able to shut them off if needed be. Sadly, they are a sort of fuel, for living. I asked jim how you were. Because I have known him for many many years, and he's been like a father to me in many instances. You don't talk to me, you're cryptic, you push everyone away, and all I wanted was to know how you actually were. You claim that I am a pagan, but I don't worship anything, or anyone, or any names. I don't know where you get this shit from. I guess you must be high on some shit, which happens. I'm tired of talking to you and always getting illegible messages because you're too fucked up to type. This worries me. I don't want to worry about you, you're a grown woman who is killing herself. Not my fucking problem, and I'm sorry I made it so. Because I don't need your baggage. So I thank you for flipping out, because I didn't know how to push you away. I am sorry because of the human being that resides in you, but I can't let your shit get to me. As much as I want to help you, I cannot and shouldn't, for until you want to help yourself, there is no point. I don't know what else to say, but I hope you get well.

Possibilities are endless, but tell that to a corpse.

In the moments between sleep

with the shades drawn and

allowing just glimmers of sunlit

reflections of an everlasting green

that seeps its way onto walls

well known and forgotten,

breaths escape from lips

which are too tired for anything or anyone.

In between the covers

there is a corpse,

or soon to be at least,

and as a mind winds down to moments

captured and preserved

in formaldehyde filled jars

stacked around the room,

the realization strikes

that these memories

just don't taste the way they used to,

a realization made

as this bed which was

kinder to passions untold

becomes a coffin

once the covers wrap around

to keep and swallow whole

in the warmth and knowledge

of being dead to the world.

Dead to SourGirl.

Second round of publications

This is my second time being published in the publication P'an Ku, a bi-yearly publication for Broward College.

Peaches

Her black hair flows over her shoulders
like the weights of time weigh upon mine.
Except her's is beautiful,
while mine is just a reminder.

A reminder of a clock counting down,
but who is to say that death itself is not beautiful
that the act of disappearing is not joyous,
only to be left in the memories of the few.

Coming up my throat I feel a snake crawling
inching it's way past my esophagus
cutting off access to lungs
and all of this is just one instant.

She waves a salute of goodbye,
never knowing when that bright smile
kind eyes and soft voice
will inundate the soft recesses of my mind

where pleasure is stored
and create a chemical reaction some have come
to call love, making me addicted to you.
I wonder how long this withdrawal will take.

How long my veins will ache
and my head will pound screaming
"more... more... more..."
with rivers flowing from those orbs

which knew and gladly accepted
the glow of your being
the curves of your body
the taste of your words.

Time stops when I'm around you
and death takes a step back.

On fear

Afraid

because it's you

who can break my heart.

Time is a river

A couple together

walking down the breezeway

holding hands

she leans on his shoulder

he holds her by the waist.

Two old people sitting in a booth

ordering the special

they both have shared in the good

in the bad

and all the in between's.

An innocent child waits by the staircase

while mother locks the door

their one bedroom is a safe place

they both hold on to the railing

as they descend wind blows

the hair from their face.

He sits on a stool

in a bar

with a drink that never runs out

his worries, all watered down,

cease to exist for just a little while.

She hangs out at a party

suitors all tend to her needs

the well never runs dry

when so many are willing

giving it all they have,

but it's all just a game.

In dreams they meet again and again

aging stops

preconceptions stop

it's the purest feeling

as water dragons dance for them

love flows yet again.

Burnt Marshmallow

"Wretched night" are the words that escape his lips. Walking through the back alleys of the town, garbage lines the side of the buildings, some of it is made up like homes for the indigents and lost. Each step gets heavier and heavier with the passing of time, he needs his fix. Finally at his destination, a man in baggy clothes and baseball cap with shinny stickers on it looks him over.

"What will it be?" He knows his costumers by the visage of death drawn upon their beings.

"I just need the usual... It's been a long night." A stack of singles and fives is passed from one to the other, and as soon as it is counted a bag containing tiny blue pills is exchanged.

"See you soon."

----

When he gets back to his apartment she is waiting on the dirty old couch, a thing full of smells and stains that remark the past 2 years as if they'd been decades. Her thin lips are dry and chalked, a crust under her nose and bags under the eyes makes it hard to remember what she looked like before it all started. He puts his coat on the back of the door, and crunching past plastic cups and caps that litter the hallway he scratches at his head. Thin arms and even thinner wrists still manage to gather the tools of their addiction. Straws, tin foil, and a couple of lighters of which he can't recall if they are dead or not.

"What took so long?" she asks as her head wobbles, trying to sit up. He makes room for himself on the edge of the couch as he clears some of the table by tossing a heap of garbage to the floor.

"I was just thinking, maybe we ought to get out of here soon. I mean, like... get out of here, this town, start new somewhere else." He opens the baggie and takes two pills out, rips two pieces of tinfoil, and passes one of each to her. She grabs a straw and lighter just as he does and places the pill on the metallic surface. With the straw in her mouth she begins to burn the underside of the tinfoil, a smoldering crackling is emitted from the pill as it heats up and starts to smoke, she suctions the white smoke as the smell of burnt marshmallow fills the room. He follows suit.

As the pill melts, it moves on the tinfoil, making a dark spiral as it travels on the surface of the heated metal. Their lungs absorbing the opiate and eyes widening, this is what their life has become. After two more pills they lay back and hold one another.

"I think it would be a good idea." Her hair is oily from lack of washing, she tucks it behind her ears. Pimples are sprouting like mountains across her unwashed face. When was the last time they washed? They can't remember, the bathroom is only used to defecate once every couple of days, and maybe to throw up in more often than anything else. The shower is seldom used. "I'm tired of this place, the people are horrible."

Sustaining his head like a helium balloon that has grown too heavy, he comes in and out of consciousnesses unable to talk. They both fall asleep on the couch.

-----

Sunlight. It's warmth is heating up their faces, it awakens him. She's still asleep. Getting up he feels his bones crack, falling asleep on the couch is no good for them, but he doesn't notice after a fix or two. Once in the kitchen he pours himself some water in a cup that's been sitting by the sink for who knows how many days, weeks even. After gulping it down he opens the fridge to find it empty. The last of the food stamp money had been spent on their current stash, selling them had become yet another habit meant to sustain their addiction. He serves more water and drinks it down.

Sitting on the couch he sets up another piece of tinfoil, the roll is still new and has quite a bit of the shinny paper on it. He shakes the lighter to make sure it's still got fuel, placing another pill on top he lights up. She awakens as he blows smoke on her face.

"What... oh... here..." she grabs for the paper and straw as he lights it for her. This is how every morning is spent.

"We need more money, we'll be out by tonight." His voice shakes a little, she knows what he meas.

"Alright, I'll call Hue. I'm sure he could use some release." She inhales, and holds it. Again, burnt marshmallows fill the air.

-----

She's dressed up, unshowered, but dressed up. Her skinny legs are nothing like they used to be. Once upon a time she ran every morning before going to work at the restaurant, her figure was envied, her beauty was obscene. Every man wanted her, and she knew it. Now she's just another corpse walking the street.

"Hue is coming soon, you'll have to go wait outside. Can you head over to John's and see if he can hook us up with some pot? Tell him he can come by for the money later." She's applying lipstick to her chapped lips, a bit of eye shadow, and some flush takes away the look of death. She almost looks normal, but there is something about addiction you can never hide.

"Alright." It's all he says. He gets up and walks to the door, grabs his jacket and just as he's about to close the door she says to him:

"I love you!"

"I love you too babe... call John's when you are done." He walks down the stairs and runs into Hue, he's a tall blonde man, wearing glasses as usual. He's married, but likes to get his kicks elsewhere just like everyone else. He's never asked her just what he does that he has to go somewhere else to find it besides home, he doesn't care. Hue doesn't know who he is.

-----

John's house is five minutes from the apartment, it is an old house filled with old newspapers and an array of stuff which could be easily thrown out, but John just can't seem to part with it. It reminds him of his parent's, he says. They saved all of this stuff, and now it just happened to be his watch over it, having them both gone this was the only thing they'd left behind. A house full of garbage. He knocks on the door.

"Come on in!" John screams from within. Opening the door with his think fingers, he hears the rustling of the dog as it's running towards the door. It's an old pit bull with barely any teeth left, a very lovable old dog.

"So what's up?" John is rolling a blunt, he always has pot.

"Not much, Lucy is working a job so I thought I'd come by."

"I see..." He knew what this meant, but didn't say anything. Lucy wasn't a stranger to him by any means, even shut in pot heads need to get their rocks off every once in a while.

"Hey, do you think you can front us some of that pot? Lucy will have the money for you tonight, you can just come back with me and she'll have it for you."

"Alright, not a problem." Lighting the blunt makes the room fill with smoke almost instantly, maybe it wouldn't happen so fast if there wasn't so much shit in there, air circulation might be better, but tell that to John, he'd only say that it's his house and he'll do as he pleases. He's right though, no one should be telling someone how to live their lives.

-----

The phone rings, it's Lucy.

"Yeah, I'm all done over here, you guys can come through if you want."

"Sure, we'll be right there."

-----

She's back in her regular clothes, her face is still flushed even though there is no make up on it. Her lipstick is a bit smeared, and her hair looks kind of clumpy. She's smoking a pill as the two of them walk into the living room, seems like Hue left her a tip, there is a bag with a nice stash of pills by her side of the table. This is good, he wont have to go out tonight to re up. John takes a seat on a metal chair across from them, tossing a baggie of pot on the table.

"Twenty five please."

"Here you go." She puts down her utensils and reaches into her pocket, pulling out a small wad of bills. He accepts the money and pulls out a pre rolled joint, lighting it he winks at her and she smiles.

"So what is up for tonight?" John takes a couple of puffs and passes the joint to Lucy.

"Oh I don't know, thinking we are going to stay in and maybe watch some Fifth Element." Her voice seems raspy, maybe it's all the smoking.

"I was thinking we could get some groceries, the fridge is kind of empty." He takes the joint from Lucy and inhales a large hit, coughing as if his lungs were trying to escape years of torture and abuse.

"Easy old man, you can't take those big hits with this stuff." John takes the joint from him and puffs at it. "I can give you guys a ride to the market if you need, I could use some supplies myself."

"Sounds good, now that we have a little bit of cash it sounds like a good idea." She lights the tinfoil, and sucks in more of the burnt marshmallow.

-----

It's been three days since Hue came around, and they needed more money. Lucy went to walk the streets for a little while, he stayed at home trying to figure out who he could rob and how to make a quick buck.

Lucy comes in a couple of hours later, her dress is a bit ripped, and there is something dripping from between her legs. She doesn't say anything as she passes by him on the couch, she throws a wad of bills on the table and heads straight to the bathroom. He hears the shower go on. He grabs one of the last pills and lights it up.

"Hey, Steve!" She screams from the shower. "Can you head down to T's and pick up some more blues?"

"Sure thing babe."

-----

The alley hasn't changed much, a couple of bums are fighting over the contents of a garbage can as he passes them, they don't even notice him. Shadows seem to elongate and compress, the wind is blowing and there is little to no fresh smell, it's a stink of decay that seems to linger in the inner city. Shivering from the cold he crosses to the other side of the alley where T is usually hanging out this time of night, but he's not there. Instead there is another dealer, he's seen him before. Tall and dark, with an over sized coat on, gold teeth, and a fuck you look to him.

"What you need boy?"

"Umm... where is T?"

"He ain't here... now you need somethin' or not?"

"Yeah, I need two hundred worth..."

"Aight..." He reaches in his jacket and pulls out 4 baggies, each with 5 pills in it.

"Cool cool..." He hands the money and takes the bags. "Catch you around."

"Yeah, whatever."

-----

Back in the apartment she's smoking the last pill from the last stash. There are a few bills left on the table, and the aluminum roll is growing thin. He walks in and plops next to her, setting the bags of pills on the table as he does so.

"We really need to get out of here..." He says, but just as he does she kisses him and exhales into his mouth. The hit makes him feel light headed, he forgets what he was talking about.

"You just need some more of this..." She rips some foil for him, opens a baggie, and sets up a fix for him. "Come on, smoke some and fuck me."

He get's high, he doesn't fuck her, his dick can't get up after he smokes the pills. They both pass out on the couch as the sun begins to rise on the horizon.

Four Letter Words to Break You

Flaming Lips. I Want You (She's So Heavy).


coming through
like waves
through open spaces
screams of hello
good-bye
and yellow submarines
sound waves caressing
all waiting for
and inspecting
the mare.
It's been so long
since the feeling of alone
really dug it's claws
into the mindless babble
and the garble of
these insane moments
often followed by our disastrous manic friend
happiness.
It's never as revolting
as it should be to be
seeing yourself in the mirror
smile from ear to ear
and all you want to do inside
is cry.
Because it's not normal
it's completely bonkers.
Reality skews itself in lips
often thought of
seldom forgotten
that speak those dirty words
with four letters
all the while
making the content
happy about
and the discerning
question
the ineffability
of Good-Bye.
It takes a while
to really wake up in the morning
stretch your eyes open
as you blink yourself into existence
from a night of tossing and turning
only to feel the pearl
you've been sleeping on
all night.
It's really just a matter
of picking the pieces
and being choosy about which parts
you want to put back together
often enough
you'll find that there are empty spaces
left behind
but it's ok
sooner or later you'll find something new
to fill them up with
a new smile
a kiss
a caress
new moments to glue yourself back together with.
It only takes a few
to forget of the crevices
and the broken dreams.
It's not so bad
once you look up in the new morning
to find yourself next to a lover
who you want
just as they want.
Something I always think though,
and shit...
this is just how I work.
I wonder how you'll break my heart?
How many pieces will you leave behind?
As I caress her back
massage her neck
feel my fingers deep inside
I wonder
Just how you will kill me
and how many times will I let myself
fall victim
to four letter words.

Dreams of Sour

She was in my dream again last night. Sourgirl. I can't seem to shake her off, it's ridiculous. I was in South America going to a class there (?) which was in a sort of commercial spot with lot's of windows. A large group of us sat in for a sort of telling of rules and such. We were then asked to vacate in order for the next round of students to receive the same speech. I went outside and waited with the rest of the people, except that on my way out I saw Sourgirls best friend, that Asian woman. She was in all white, and didn't say a word to me. Outside the professor eventually came out and wanted to talk to me, said that two students had a problem with me being there, in particular D.Healy. I don't know why he'd have a problem, but I ended up finding and talking to him, apparently someone had been seeding lies in their group. I told him what had happened between Sourgirl and I, and he said it was very curious and that something similar had happened to another of his friends via Vigil, who was the perpetrator in my situation as well. He set off to look for her. The whole time I was looking for Sourgirl, I could feel her watching me, like she was near by...  At a point in time this gangster guy in his ghetto get up started hanging on to my back so he could hitch a ride in his skates, I eventually shook him off. We ended up going to some giant club with lot's of Womp Womp music, Healy entered but I didn't, I wasn't feeling it. There I saw the light show going on inside, as well as a multitude of people dancing. He'd gone in to look for her. I awoke.

My worry is that I haven't even been thinking about this woman and here she is, popping up in my dreams again. I don't know what to do short of a lobotomy to get her out of my head. What sucks is that every time I dream of her I am reminded of the stupidity surrounding the whole situation, but then again that is what happens when you fall for a junkie. I guess my subconscious misses her, but all in all I'm much happier not thinking about the could and should have been's. Sometimes though, I do wish that we could meet up, get over this shit, and move on. I hate waking up with her on my mind, I always feel so empty. I guess that's the feeling she leaves most people with though.

Breathe, while you still can.

You see, the thing is that as human beings we are inherently needy. Be it for attention, a hug, someone to talk to, the friend to listen, to speak, to wait for. A lover, an enemy, a gruesome and dramatic stop or start. We all need some of these things in life. I have been lucky to find some if not all. Lately I had thought myself so lost, so unaccompanied, but it took a couple of friends, and some strange situations, to make me realize that I am not as alone as I once thought. These people, a bartender, a mother, and someone who befriended me just because. These three have made me feel something again besides despair and loneliness.

It's taken so long though, and even if I do feel enlightened at this moment in time, I'm afraid it's something I may loose again, because it's those people in life that let you know you are here, that there is a connection from within to the real world. That emotion.

Certainly one of the people I've grown fonder of is a friend. someone who I started hanging out with because I honestly felt alone, and she was willing to talk to me. This friend made a whole lot of difference, kept in touch, and even allowed me to inundate her txt in-box with rants and raves about emotional stuff that no one should have to deal with, especially when unwarranted. She's made me feel again though. After so long of not wanting to, and blocking every little bit of emotion out, I started feeling something again. I started to feel like someone enjoyed my company, enjoyed to listen to me, didn't brake me down, bring me down, tear at me with words. She listens, and I listen. She is a really good friend. I'm sorry if I've ever made her feel uncomfortable, but someone like this doesn't come around very often, and I'm pretty good at going over board most of the time.

It's certainly a change from sour girl. She was nice and made me happy, but within a month or two she became mean and tore at my ego, tearing me down and making me feel bad. That wasn't cool, and it's still causing issues... because I put so much trust in her, and I wanted to believe EVERYTHING she said. With Dibbs, it's not so. I have trust, but I've figured out to keep my distance. When I start getting too attached I withdraw myself. Because I don't know where she stands besides our friendship, and I don't want to ruin that because it's important to me. Even if something was to come out of this, this friendship, this great personal relationship we have and are building would be that base on which it is built.

Again though, I'm just jumping the gun there. Although it's so true. If I ever want something real with someone, that's how it's going to have to be. I'm not a party person anymore, I don't want to spend endless nights getting effed up and regretting it the next 3 days. I want to start settling down, start a family, and get to living. After all, who knows just how long I do have left. It's taken me a long time to figure out what I want exactly out of life, and even though I'm sure that I'm not going to get it to the T as to what I want, I hope that I'm able to at least kind of find something along those lines.

Anyhow, I'm just glad to have had this reawakening. The pessimist within me said that it will surely pass, but I can only hope that I can make the headway to keep myself afloat long enough so that when the waves of depression come back again, I can keep my head above water.

When you can't think about what to say, music will speak for you.

Lily Allen - Fuck You!
For you, because you know who you are.

I awaken from a dream of you into a nightmare of sorts.

Since I last wrote two people have passed away due to drug overdose. This synthetic heroin is killing people. 3 weeks ago it was a woman in her mid to late twenties, I didn't really know her but I had met her on a few occasions, a passing face one can say. I did know her reputation though, and as sad as it was it's hard not to say that we all saw that one coming. Latest addition to the count was three days ago. Brother of a childhood friend, cousin of an old old friend. Passed away much too young, 21 years too young.

That was my news this morning, as I woke up from a dream with you again, sour girl. This time it was a bit different. We lay under a tree next to a lake, not together but with one another. Streams of air passing through the branches and leafs, I could see them as they made their way over the water up to us. Red was all over, and the roots of the tree which stretched out under us like protruding veins which softly dug into us. You spoke to me, told me that I deserved so much better and that life would give to me that which I worked for. Your voice resonated against me, a feeling which now in my waking life I miss. Hell, I miss everything about the dream, your eyes, your smile, the warmth of you. As quickly as the dream began, it ended. You disappeared off the face of the earth, much like you did in real life. Then I woke up, and received a call about a friend, who 21 years too young passed away from heroin overdose.

I hate it when things like this happen, when my mind brings you out and then I'm reminded as to why I made the effort to push you away. Well, I want one thing from life, and that is my peace with you, a sober from heroin you.

Dream Ridden Wanderlust.

In the arms of sleep
dreams of you haunt
reminding the heart
of the loss that's been had.

Running through the crowded streets
wearing ballerina shoes
tripping over mud puddles
climbing up a green hill
all to reach you.

Open doors to an apartment
seemed like a 2 bedroom one bath
with a cozy little kitchen
center table with a bayonet
and some couches to rest tired bones.

No one is there,
am I too late?

Ringing at the door
open it to find you
in white
arm to arm with a stranger
and all I hear is:

"What did you expect?
Did you really think
that anything could come
from what we had?"

Like everything we lived
was a meaningless stage
like being there with you
wanting to kiss you everywhere
was a meaningless moment.

When they all hid
under the umbrella in the house
the plot was seeping thick
good-bye's were being concocted
so I donned my Ballerina shoes.

In the rain
everything feels easy
loving,
crying,
breathing.

But when she say's
"What did you expect?"
its' amorous drumming on the window pane
turns into a hollow void
drowning a smile
just so happy to see her.

Sorry to bother you
I guess.

Might as well hide
the distaste of my chastity
all in the hopes
that a heart bruised
and aching
may one day be able
to take a hit
from the shadow boxer yet again.

Amber Stains

Long slender fingers caress the metal shaft, it's cool surface slowly warms up with the touch of the body. Well manicured nails, no dirt underneath, cuticles pushed back,a clear coat of nail polish, all make every movement seem so well thought and placed as if they'd done this a thousand times before. They open up a small baggie laying next to her kit, just a dash is poured onto the bent spoon. Those slender fingers now screw the needle onto the metal shaft, the surgical steel that once felt so alien, now feels inviting and welcoming, the mind travels back to an amniotic past where nothing seemed like it was, you could say everything was rosy.

With one pull of the plunger, a bit of water is sucked in. It is then meticulously poured onto the pink/brown powder in her spoon. One hand carefully holds the spoon now, while the other uses a lighter underneath it. It bubbles after a short time, after which she uses the needle to mix it in. Once the consistency seems proper, she pulls on the plunger to suck in all of the amniotic fluid from the spoon into the syringes' shaft. Now she can relax, as the hardest part is over and done with. Putting away all of her tools, she leaves out only the rubber tourniquet and syringe.

She walks to the kitchen for a drink of water, the glasses are just above the dish washer, there's a bottle of Perrier inside the fridge which she keeps stocked with tequila and beer. She serves herself a cup and sips at it slowly. On her way back to the bedroom she stops at her iMac where she turns on some music to lead her on her little journey. She first has to minimize the report she's been working on, not many people are able to understand the happenings of third world villages much less actualize a plan to keep a grand majority of them fed. Though she'd had enough of that for today, now it was time to forget about everything.

Music starts up slow, it's a mix of tunes ranging from The Velvet Underground to Devendra Banhart.

Now in her bedroom her slender fingers grab onto the rubber tourniquet as they wrap the loose rubber around her left upper arm and tighten it up, teeth holding on to loose pieces keeping a tight bind. Arm outstretched she slaps the inside of her elbow to pop out the veins. Once they are out well enough she grabs her syringe. At first she breaths in slow and heavy getting the syringe positioned just right. Her mouth waters as a thousand thoughts start to pour through her head of all the men that have been there but left, of the children she's had to hold in her arms to console from their hunger, from their sickness. Her co-workers who are still out there fighting the good fight, fighting for the less fortunate, of the ones who have died for the cause. She pulls on the plunger to make sure she's in the vein, the amber red liquid spurts into the chamber of her syringe. Red viscous blood which she can now see through a small glass window on the side slowly mixes in with her heroin concoction, creating a beautiful spiral of herself and the soon to be amniotic escape. She pushes the plunger in, a slow steady flow.

At first she feels little, her head is still swimming with memories, of the faces, the lovers, the people she's left behind. Everything encumbers her so, but it will all be forgotten soon enough. Pulling out the needle, and releasing the tourniquet, a warm rush goes straight to her head. A numbing feeling in the back of her skull, a tingling, spreading a warmth over her entire body. She puts the now empty chamber on her night table, as soon as it's metal body clinks against the wooden surface so does she collapse onto her bed. Blonde hair spread out around her head like a halo. White slender figure against her dark sheets accentuates the curves of her body. Now her mind is blank, there is nothing going on that could ever stop her from feeling this way. Her body gives itself fully to the heroin which makes it's way and embeds itself onto her brain. Opioid receptors light up as her own thoughts and emotions are shut down.

Nothing matters, everything is meaningless. Only thing that's real right now is this feeling like being on the clouds. Her high makes everything ok. She's not thinking about the children, about the faces of the damned. Her only thought is "God I wish I could get fucked right now." One hand reaches into her pants, she feels her wet pussy, soaking her slender fingers as she feels herself inside and out remembering the last man she was with, his hard throbbing cock inside of her all the way to her cervix, exploding orgasms, the way he caressed and kissed her. Her brain is too fucked up and there's only so much she can do for herself right now. Those slender fingers leave a wet trail from her crotch up to her breasts as she caresses herself before passing out from her drugged out self induced state.

In her dreams she's living inside a large house, with servants who do her every will and capricious desire. Her husband is a powerful and rich ambassador who shows her around like a prized dog, with their cat about and a chauffeur wearing a silly hat they drive around town to see the sights and to be seen. She doesn't have to worry about spending her money, nor does she have to worry about having to do anything for herself. Everything is already taken care of. She goes to parties where women wear dresses worth thousands of dollars that will never see the light of day again, and enough jewelry to feed a village for a lifetime. But she doesn't care anymore, she has her dream.

Her visions perpetuate here for a while, but end up in darkness eventually as the drug fully takes on. Her sleep is deep and constant, at least until her amniotic wet dream wears off. For now though, her ethereal self is swimming about in the abyss of her subconscious. Waiting to wake up, waiting to forget all over again.

Blues, Oxycodone, and the demise of my generation.

It's been a while since my last post. A lot of things have happened. I fell in love, and then into apathy, all because of a few mishapped words. What can one do but try to give and love, if it's not returned then it's just not meant to be.

Someone passed away, someone I knew, rather met a few times. It's not so much the pain of loosing someone that I thought was a nice human being, but seeing the pain of those who loved this individual. It tears at my inner most. It's a sad reality. "Blues," as they have come to be called here, better known by their name Oxycodone, have certainly made quite the impression upon me these last few years. From seeing friends cope with the eminent addiction, to a lover who was more than just a regular user, to running into the aftermath more than once in it's many facades. This is a very scary drug, an extremely potent thing to be feared. It should not be taken lightly, and those who peddle it should be shot. No kidding, it is one of the worst epidemics I have ever seen, it is my generations version of... hell, I don't think we've ever had anything this bad in our society.

Sour girl comes to mind, that old lover, that woman who makes strides in the right direction all while she shoots up poison into her veins. How vain of her.

People from my past, from Opie, to Jerry. Those who lost themselves, and the few that found their way back.

Honestly I am at a loss for words. I wish this could stop, I wish that the whole thing could go away, but it wont. It's here to stay, and we have to deal with it. We have to hope that the ones smart enough don't just fall into it's hands. Even I, after spine surgery and such, I am in danger. The opioids that I must consume to keep my own sanity are the demons that I also must face. I only take them at night to help me sleep, to keep the pain at bay, and I hate it because I don't want to end up like them. I am afraid to end up like sour girl. Having met her, and known her as I did, does put the world in perspective in such a multi faceted way that I am able to understand that what I'm going through must be threaded carefully. It is not something to be taken lightly, as there is a very fine line between sanity and loss of self here.

If only one day she'd wake up too.