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❝ living at the speed of light, like a bullet i could be dead by the morning i can't call it so i ain't got no time to wait it out i've been down and out for too long and i ain't got too many options❞
***
𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐠𝐨'𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐯.
it seems that throughout my whole life, death has been the better alternative and that is so very obvious in the moment i find myself trapped in- the same one i once found myself in a few years ago, but something about my self-served malice makes sure to bind me to it like a covenant i never quite agreed to.
my heart plows through my stomach like a faulty lawnmower set to wild grass, disrupting every single ounce of assurance i once had in myself and shaving it clean off. in its place is a psychoanalyzing fear that counts every beat of my heart so that when i'm finally sent into insanity i'll know. i've always wished that i could somehow escape from my body- that i could keep the conscious- that narrator in my head that is my thoughts- and somehow preserve my essence, without actually attaching it to my physical body. i wish i could forsake this material body and float into another one; into that of a bird or even more enticing, some beautiful creature like a stingray or an elephant but i can't; i can only sit still and feel the tightening of my throat, like how it does when it hurts to swallow and that's exactly what it is; hard to swallow.
my stomach twists and mourns, upset just from the sight of the white powder in front of me simply because it seems to flip a switch. i've fought so very hard to stay away from it that now that i see it, it's severity is dangerously downplayed as if it was in the center of my mind this whole time and that's exactly what makes it hard to even stomach. heroin is not one of those drugs you can forget without brainwashing yourself somehow, and i guess i haven't succeeded in that because i can feel the way my mind immediately convinced me that my fingers have begin to itch- the way my mind begins to itch, the thought of the high needing to be scratched.
being in a state other than the one i feel misery so deeply in would be amazing, because more than anybody the drugs loved me and a part of my brain screams that they still do.
but i'm almost certain jae loved me more.
the thought snaps me out of my momentary daze and i can feel my own expression change as i feel my heart began to run rampant, the exact reason being the delusion i just had that had brought me so close to doing a thing that nearly cost me my life a few years ago as a child. the thought lashes disappointment into me, enough to make a weight fall in my eyes that i try hard not to let fall in the form of tears as the memories pop up like a dozen flies swarming me. those memories- they kill me, and all i can see is me as a thirteen year old choking on my own vomit with nobody else to even give me a mere glance- all i can see is the syringes all over my mothers floor- all i can see are the smiles of men much too old for me, well aware that i was willing to do anything for a little taste; a little escape- all i can feel are those involuntarily twitches of my drug-laden body that even five years afterwards have still somewhat refused to fade.
