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.

Complicated, isn't it?

Worst thing about being "sick" is being "sick" in a way that no one can see. When you aren't showing symptoms and people can't tell there is something wrong with you by just looking at you makes things quite odd. Friends don't understand, family tries but only kinda gets it and the world starts getting much smaller as going out becomes extremely difficult. What once fed my spirit has dried up, the experience of life, living, and other people. It feels as if life is over. Worst part is having people who you once thought would be there for you just disappear. How is anyone supposed to stick around anyhow? Also, meeting new people becomes extremely difficult. It's not easy to assimilate into this new life, it's extremely hard. I have no help from anyone, all the doctors have to say is "well you shouldn't be feeling like this." Well guess what, I am. I'm in pain, I'm miserable, and my support net is gone. I don't even have a pain buffer. What I feel is disheartening, and all I want is someone to listen, to help. Guess what though, something always comes to mind whenever I think about this: we are born alone, we die alone. It is the one thing that we have to share with each other.

Except for twins, they are born together, and die alone.

It must feel nice to know

It's not every night that I dream
much less the times that they are remembered.
So when they are about you I have to ask
if it's you that makes them happen
or if there is some part of me
deep down inside hidden from my own eye
that still misses you.

What do I miss?
A gentle touch as we pass a cigarette
back and forth our fingers slightly graze
the touch of skin to skin.
The stink of your dirty clothes
or hair unwashed for days
a gentle smile
half crooked teeth
to me you were perfect in every way.

I miss the elongated nights
made short by our alcohol consumption
I never drank like I did with you
and somehow I miss that.


Why do you come to mind as often as you do
when we both know you've given up
even though you took my heart with you.
It's not easy to forget the good things
my mistake is that the bad I often do.
That is what love does I guess
blinds one to be a fool.

Bleh

Another 2 days in the hospital. Food poisoning/flu like symptoms. WTF. Yeah, still feel like shit, my head is spinning, and they gave me no meds to go home with. Way to go Hospital.

The Wrinkles on our Faces

No matter how I paint it
or how many times I lie to myself
she's a thousand miles away
in another's arms
raising the children
that should have been mine.

It's sad
to think of how we loved one another
only to end up like this.
You playing a part
pretending to enjoy
the words that I utter
as one drowns in remorse
that I didn't stay in your warmth
when there was nothing but cold
to come back here to.

Now it's too late,
a decade has passed
since that fateful day
when we first crossed paths
on a web spun foyer
meant for just you and I.

Now we are older
we thread carefully each step
weary from the backhands
that have come our way.
It's not your fault,
nor is it mine.
Sometimes people simply lie.

Once in a past life
we held each other close
loved one another
in your arms my repose.
Now lifetimes later
we find each other again
only to miss one another
by the hair of our necks.

It's been nice to know you
and hear your voice again,
just remember
my ethereal lips
kiss yours every day.
Maybe next life,
though this one seems to be it,
though we may never know
what was meant as our bliss.

Human

As the years pass
I've had the chance to
Live, love, hate, and die.
Living short moments of happiness
dances with strangers
getting to know them
as they pop in and out of existence.
Loving without holding back
letting emotions run amok
frivolous kisses
words exchanged long distance
all make a heart ache in joy
simple reminders of Alive.
Hating good-bye
spaces between us
contradictions
of what we thought fate would bring.
Dying slowly
locked away
becoming a memory
one which many will soon forget.
This is human,
birth, life, and death.

Coming to terms with her allegorical death

I wish I could say I've learned something dire, an important tid bit of information, but the only thing that I keep exploring is my inner thoughts. Too lost within? Stuck in the muck and tangled in memories? Yes, but at least I know so.

I've been reminded about the way that I was treated by many, disposed of like a bad habit (mirrors can be ugly things I guess), made aware of the injustice of the just, the lust behind the calm blue eyes of yesterday, and the complicated situations that being "alive" really brings on.

Not without much effort do I find myself entangled in the conversations with a lover who will always be, at the same time pulling away from others who dilly dally back and fro without knowing just what it is that they want from life. Rather, finding the self away from overtly complicated states is best right now, but my lover will always be there and that is more than anyone else can say.

It's been years, and years it will be until I'm in the arms of someone that I really trust again. Last time I trusted all too easy, letting the snide remarks slide, the back handed comments and words packed with bullets bounce, all along all of her horrible manifestations came from within to barrage me (or any unlucky male found present at her grasp) as if I'd been the one to hurt her, but I let her go on because I knew her pain and I wanted to help; thus she gave of herself to me, but one cannot deny the hurt that she caused to herself or to me, it's all kept away in the state of memories or even coming back in dreams. It truly makes the past sour but reminds me not to fall for her again.

My lover, I do not have to worry about that with. We've shared the world and more, a bed, a kiss or two, and even the words "I love you" without anything forcing us to fear or worry about what tomorrow may bring because we know that whatever it is we will be there. She is nothing like sour girl, she will never be. That is good, it is great, my childhood friend and lover becomes more than just a memory but a living part of my life. Meanwhile the sour one is embedded into dreams and memories as a husk of a woman I do not wish to have a part of ever again, and so it becomes easier to read others like her, to keep away.

Both of them held the same space once, yet they are complete opposites. Within my heart they found warmth and appreciation, and only one of them knew what to do with it, my solemn lover. Sour Girl knew nothing of such things, her appreciation of life seems only superficial, childish at best (spread your legs for happiness). Playing back and fro from flower bed to flower bed like an earthworm, just eating and defecating while pretending to save the world. Sure, she helps flowers bloom much as she helped me, but the cost of the life led is so much higher than any price I'd be willing to pay, otherwise why would she want to run away from herself so badly with the drugs, sex, and alcohol? And run she does.

With one breath, she stitches together what is left of my heart. With a few words she pumps the eviscerated organs with life and brings me back to stature. She knows what to say to make me smile, to bring out the light within me. My solemn lover will always be there to stitch me back together when sour girls have their way.

This is what I've learned lately, I know it's not much, but to me it's a world.

I think movie lines are funny, so what?

Nothing to write, at least nothing I want to share with anyone. Life is meh. It's ok, I'm getting used to being tossed to the side like a half dead dog. It only fuels my hate for them. I hope you get what you deserve.

...

I felt like writing on my way home from my sisters graduation today, which I was only able to attend for a little while, but now I'm just not feeling letting out all of this... shit. Yes, shit. Because it's all I beget. What a waste, my whole life ahead of me is a waste. I can't do anything to help myself right. I just want to...

Truths in quotes

"she was consumed by 3 simple things:
drink, despair, loneliness; and 2 more:
youth and beauty"
— Charles Bukowski (The People Look Like Flowers At Last: New Poems)

Remnants of Dream Land

It's happened before, where I have strange dreams that I wake up to, hoping that I can finish off. First, I was doing an investigation on some conglomerate power, in a post apocalyptic and desolate world, they were hiding seeds. A few people knew about this, and tried to sneak out as many as they could, but the corporation wanted them dead. I was there to figure out why people turned up dead. It was so hard to get in, but once I did they couldn't do anything to me, as I had special fiscal powers. In other words, many people knew where I was, and what I was doing. In the end, I had found someone who would talk to me, Lucy. Lucy was sneaking out seeds, giving them to farmers I believe. We left the building but I lost her, somehow a biker started jumping over me on his bike to stop me. I kept telling him that I was in a fragile condition and he should be extremely careful. Eventually someone came up and grabbed him, swung him like a rag doll and smashed his helmet onto the pavement. It was here that I heard a punk rock band singing in a park, the lyrics all escape me but this part "we are here, we are here, we are trying to live homeless. Staving off the cold, keeping each other warm, we are trying to stave off homelessness."

I awoke, couldn't get into the dream again. I wanted to find Lucy and get the real story. It is here that I pass out again, and another dream begins.

I'm starting a road trip, I have all of these benefactors lined up, people who will be giving me money along the way in order to continue on. I was with my old friend Steph, she wanted to come along to take pictures and such. Our first stop took us to a big city, I can't recall which, but we pulled up to a parking lot and headed towards a mall. There we met the first benefactor, a nerdy 20 something year old guy who handed over a fat wad of cash and said that he couldn't wait to see what we got into. I told him that it was going to be interesting, and he should come along if he'd like. He said something about work or school, I tried to give him a book I had but he lost it the minute I handed it to him. We tried looking but to no avail. In the end Steph and I left, and we decided to go for a walk. I told her to stop and look at her surroundings, we needed to remember where the car was.

Try Try Try

It's days like today which make me wish I was able to just go, to get up and move away from here. These four walls, the lack of privacy, the unstable home situation. It tears at my inner psyche, I'm unable to cope because I'm unable to care for myself at the moment. Without work, without a bright light at the end of this tunnel, what am I to do? I feel ill, physically as well as mentally. I don't want to be tied down like this anymore, but there is no other way for me. My creativity is at an all time low, I blame it on the lack of "alone" time. I am always surrounded by someone, be it my sister or my mother, they are about at all times. Feeling ostigated with their presence I wonder if they feel the same about me, and if they want me gone as badly as I want to be gone. When will they know that I left a long time ago? That mentally I have tried to be away from them for so long. I sometimes don't understand these things, though I do know that what I do is because it makes me feel better, it allows for me to be somewhere else entirely. I often wish that things would be different, that I could take care of myself, that I had my own place, maybe then my family and I would get along better.

She came back into mind again. I met someone this past weekend, someone who reminded me a lot of her. Blond, thin, with a bag full of pills, and a care free attitude. I knew to stay away from the moment I laid eyes on her, sour girls are not something I want to be hanging around with. Other than that the festival went well. I met someone who I thought was really nice, but they may never know because I didn't say so. It was one of the volunteers, brunette, nice figure, and a go get 'em sense of being that I enjoyed. Too bad I was too busy making sure things were ok to do anything about it, to chat her up and say more than just hello. I'm such an idiot sometimes. What I hate the most is feeling alone, especially when I'm surrounded by people.

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.