Cold

I remember my first love, my second, my third. I remember heroin.

I try to feel things, I just can't. Hollowed out, so very distant, that's how I stop myself from using, by watching from afar, I could be a character on tv, an actor, for all the emotion I can feel.

Men want to save me, as if that might save them. Like it's a contest, between them and heroin. They don't understand. In love, heroin will always win. It has already been decided.

I can't be your girlfriend. Or yours. Don't love me, because I can't love you.

Crushing my friends like old autumn leaves between my fingers. How can you fall in love so easily? I am a paper doll playing with scissors. I'm dangerous. I'm barely here. I'm barely anywhere. You love someone fictional, not me. I may not use heroin anymore, but it still owns me. Imagine, babies and picket fences now! I'd tear that fucking fence apart to get away. It would be nice to feel my hands bleeding for a bit, better than my heart.

I despise declarations and revelations. Don't tell me anything, everything you say gives me an excuse to use. Do you even see me, or are you seeing what you want to see? I'm messed up, I'm lost, I need to find myself before anyone else can.

I've trampled a bad path, hurting everyone. What are you all, masochists? That's my role. Go now, go.

After midnight

It comes for me, when I'm not looking.
Shadows up the wall, mid dream the lighter flicks, bubbling that familiar smell, brown liquid sucks syringe-wards, pull tight the leather purse strap, fit too-warm between my lips I would smile- but everything's too helter skelt, a suspense snowball towards one moment, the vein found, confirmed, that satisfying bloody flower, the sigh half-formed oh so ready for

My eyes snap open, wide.
Heart a-gallop, chest wound tight. Want, skyscraper-tall. Every cell aching for one thing, as the quiet night breathes outside, sea on rocks, covers to my chin I wish they were over my head, wish they were twisted on the floor and I was gone.

RIP fairsCaPe

we have chosen to come to this life

it is just like choosing to get on a rollercoaster

we are here for the experience

there is no right or wrong

there is only the ride

taking drugs while on the ride just alters the experience

do what you want

you'll return to the place you came from and you'll be back

think of yourself as a raindrop

you come from above

join a stream a river an ocean

evaporate into the clouds

and return as a raindrop

one of millions

part of all

no god

no religion

no reward

no punishment

just being


-Written by fairsCaPe, Nov 2006.



A comment I've never forgotten.
Thank-you.

...restless

These legs, this mind, this heart, everything restless. I know what will cure it. Two things. Heroin or time. Time or heroin. Two cures, one option. And so I wait, heart jumping with the second hand.
...

My counsellor expressed concern that I haven't been to a supermarket since detox. She thinks I'm afraid.

Maybe I just don't feel like shopping. I don't feel like swiping my card, moving up and down aisles. Looking at things that I don't want. I don't want anything. Except. But that's natural. Ignore the want. Ignore everything except the blue sky. Drink it through a straw. Mix it into my milkshake. Swim in it, drown in it. Dream.

Of course I miss you and I miss you bad, but I also felt this way when I was still with you

Volume up. Way up. Love songs all sound like they're written for me. I guess I'm breaking up with heroin. It's hard. I want break-up sex, but it'd hurt worse. I'd never be able to get enough.

Driving home yesterday, this town is small. I saw her face, her peroxide bob, and went numb. Dealer. Heart pounding in my ears. Pull over it screamed. Ask, buy, cook, inject. Do it!!

Even writing this, my pulse speeds, sick with want. I know where she and her pit bull live. That was the night of the shared spoon. Her bloody methadone swirling over my dregs. I knew she had hep c, but for some reason I'd entrusted my blood to her. The sour kick as I realized I had just gambled disease for a shitty rush. The endless wait. The difficult blood tests. And finally, just four days ago, relief. Another reason to turn the page.

Do I really want to go back there? No! (yes) NO!!!!!!!!! No no nonononono please no

Bruised

I can feel them watching my hand. Mum said to put a band-aid on it. But violetly blue, the bruise still leaks out the side. Still, a week later.

They ask,
what happened?
Oh, the dog.
It bit you?
Mm yeah.

The doctor dog, who bit me for a blood test.
Pulling off my socks, we examined my feet together. Nope. Ankles patterned with scratchy scars that look like veins. We both know there's nothing under there. Tap, tap, squeeze, pump your arm. Nothing.

I wait, breath held, can't look. I can feel his tension, just want that sigh of relief as the veins fill his little vials red. Finally, in quiet desperation, he lowered the tournequit over my head. Will they ever come back? I asked, holding a small cloud of cotton wool to my neck. He looked at me, face expressionlessly smooth. My veins? I repeated. Maybe something caught his attention, through the window, blinds half-drawn. He looked away.

Cleanliness

I crawl out of bed. Up stairs. Float in the bath. Float under. Swallow pills. Pink ones, yellow ones, white, two-tone, speckled. Feel everything. Intense lust. Relief. Something.

I can feel the methadone creeping out of my bones, slowly, very very slowly.

I look different, acquaintances say. Have you done something new with your hair?

Life sparkles again, sometimes hurting my eyes, but I can't look away. Tomorrows are coming, ready or not.