Wednesday, January 10, 2007


Old light. Quiet cold stone. The tip of the Southern hemisphere. Plants with eyes, and hands. Breathing, moving as you pass. Dark leafy gullys. Magic written in the wind.

Organic poppys cut from my parent's garden, bled and scraped and chemicaled and cooked. From opium, to homemade heroin. Digging past scars, like soldiers standing guard, to the blanket of happiness and relief. Swimming underwater, liquid softness around me, inside me, in my heart. Looking through my lashes. It's a disentangling, like sleeping with your ex. I tell myself.

I feel too empty to regret anything. Anything to do with me. I am so fucking bad tempered. Don't cross my path, I'll twist the steeringwheel. Too angry to be neat. Hurting everything. Everyone I love, I only have them for a a few weeks, some a few days. Don't try to get close to me. Don't care about me. Innocent in appearance only, fruit with poisonous flesh.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

I have linked you now, I always thought you were. I have done a post today and I'd like you to read it.

Your posts are cryptic and because I care for you, because I am real, I am not afforded a sense of curiosity.
Are you still using?

Are you injecting? Are you still in there, are you still aware that this fight for your life is something only you can do, no one else wins or loses.

Only you.
Be safe, I care.

There is an end. I know you are tired and frustrated of being frustrated. But you need to have faith, have faith in me if you have to, that you can live through this.


8:49 PM  

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