Not quite dead

I'm not slashed of throat, formaldahyded, or scattered to the howling winds. 

I'm still out there, here, somewhere, my legs climbing stairs, hands typing inane ad copy for brand giants. Still smoking cigs on the balcony on level 11. Still waiting for him to deliver my "lunch". 

As soon as I see his car, I'm triple pressing the elevator button, willing the doors to open. Hands trembling, forehead wet. Stomach being gnawed by rats. Skidding through the foyer in heels. I lean through his car window, he gives me a banana, a nectarine, and a syringe full of drugs.

Sometimes, in the elevator on the way up, eyes on the lights as they ding though the floors, I'll rest my stupid head on the cool aluminum walls with relief, sometimes I'll do a mental little wriggly alone-dance. I hate myself for this happiness. This compulsive need. But I just can't seem to stop, it's in me now, it's got me, this need that means enough to lie for. To live a double life for. 

Truer than any true love. My very cells are love-sick until their daily kiss. My selfish, parasitic lover is oblivious. The only lover you know for certain will never leave you. Til death do us part as they say. That is his break up routine. So very fucking loyal.

Once in the office bathroom, by the bulb that doesn't shine bright enough, when I see that glorious rosy plume of blood, that is the moment I work until 8pm for. The reason I give my dealer more than my landlord. The reason the dealer always gets paid, the landlord, if he's lucky. Bowed head, bloody wrists. Another droplet hits the floor. The colour sweeps back through my cheeks, my eyes are clearer, like make-up on a mannequin. A polished apple, rotten and dead inside.