PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

People say love is like a drug. Those people have never shot heroin. I told myself I would never shoot up, I would only ever smoke pure uncut, but black is cheaper and she walked me through it. Sticky… I just remember sticky and the high, and the lows. I can’t count the tracks on my arms any more, no one tells you how much you’ll miss your arms… We were living in a small apartment at the time just room enough for a bed or the two sleeping bags we slept in, no windows just one door to the hallway; it was squalor and the floors were matted with newspaper. It wasn’t planned but I was angry. She took it. She took it all, and there was none left. It wasn’t me but I loved her. I found her in her vomit. She was grey and her lips were blue and I all I could think was she took it all. I sucked on her, I needed. I needed. I couldn’t. I wanted to be grey and blue, she’d never been so perfect. I moved the hair and vomit from her face, lustful and angry I watched her. I started taking off her pants and unbuttoning mine, she was so cold and beautiful. Sticky… I just remember sticky and stiff and cold, pain and anger. Inside her I was dead. I walked out of the room and picked up a bottle of ammonia in the hallway on a janitor’s cart. I opened the bottle and poured it all over her, she started to come back when her skin started peeling off. She was burning, smoking and the ammonia cut into her insistently, bubbling and fowl. I walked out and closed the door locking it, put a towel on the crack of the door sealing the room, she scratched at the wood, crawling, the room filling with ammonia, I listened for half an hour as she begged me to open the door. It must have been an amazing high.