Going in

Tomorrow's The Day. Check in, 9am. Duration, 2 weeks. It's a spin dry. And I need it.

At least it feels like summer is here. At last. Walking slowly in the sunshine, soaking it up. The little things make me happy. My chocolate milkshake, each inhale of nicotine, my boyfriend's smooth strong body next to mine. Entwined in each other.

We're entwined in addiction too. Yes, he's bad. But not to me. To me he's soft and lovely. Used to associating with criminals, he wears the mask of tough guy- don't piss him off, don't get too close. His deep dark secret is his sweetness. What a secret! It's a topsy-turvy world, but the more I learn him, the more he shines. He's good for me.

As I clean up, so will he. And that's when reality will close in. Like going from crooners on the record player to a skipping heavy metal CD. From candle-light to harsh fluorescents.
I expect it all.

I want it all.
I want the track marks on my hands and wrists to heal. I want to wake up without the aching and the sneezing. I want a short sleeved summer. Messy orgasms. Change at the bottom of my purse. Clarity.

Again

Waiting for the sickness. It's time.

The duvet cover flaps over the window in my room. It's hung by push-pins. My mother bought me blinds, nice blinds. But they were $90. As I watched her pass 5 20s across the counter, I knew indelibly I would be back there, returning them for cash, enough to get high. Enough to not be sick. That was days ago now.

Yesterday, the last-last-LAST day, my legs ached early as I climbed the hill to the dealer's. Big-handed boyfriend dragging me up behind him. Senses raw, the fur of my jacket steamed in the sun with the smell of my own sour vomit. I remembered that day, now so long ago, tolerance still low, he held my hair back as I vomited out the car window. A different he, the same unstable me.