Blue as the gloomy sky. Blue like the dozens of tacky snowflake beads falling to the floor. Blue: the heroin addict’s face during the final overdose.
“I’m so blue… without you…” Another Christmas song comes to mind as I write advertisements for holiday companies too lazy to do the work themselves. “I feel so blue…” However that Elvis Presley song goes, it sticks in the mind, but what did he know about being blue anyway? He ate his peanut butter & banana sandwiches like a hog. The man grew rich as he gorged himself with the poison of fame. Did he ever stop to think about what his pathway to destruction meant, or was he fooled to the very end thinking that path was pure gold?
I was fooled every time I took that forsaken hit. I feel so old now and much too worn. I remember thinking I would keep doing this till I died. Nothing could ever match up to the euphoria from that last sticky trail on foil, an evil road to hell if there ever was one.
Then I died inside when I lost everything: apartment, family, and future. I guess dying on the inside was enough, because I’m clean as a whistle now as far as heroin habits go. I came out physically intact with a few facial scars and eternal insomnia, but I’m a changed girl, a new woman, right? Right?
Tell that to the girl who snuck out of her boyfriend’s house to meet some Mexican just out of jail, just for a few more, oh, the last hit, I SWEAR. I told him with a smile that I would be back later that day. Whatever. He was a cute dealer, and at the time, I figured I would be back.
Then I return to the house, locked out and as ashamed as a two-faced bitch like me could be. I started crying, but my tears are never real. I got a second chance.
“Use one more time,” They say, “and you’re out!”
“I’ve never known anybody to get off heroin.”
I grimace as they give me the lectures. I smoke cigarettes and sneak vodka to ease the need for blackest devil and best friend. I look at my painted toes, sparkly lies that say I’m still a little girl. Nothing more.
I am nothing more.
“Nothing but blue skies, all day long.” Jazz music sucks. I hate remembering such simplistic joy. The only blue I see is the coldest kind. Blue lips from death and blue veins from my barest survival.
My heart is frozen forever. Heroin cracked the ice and made dark aqua pools of blood gush out.
Everyone asks me, “Do you even care? Are you listening? What do you fucking live for, Crow, because it’s obviously not to love anyone but your DAMN self.” I sit there and stare. I agree with them, but I say nothing, for what could come of any arguments?
They’re humans. Stupid humans, just like me. I observe and see true love bringing them misery, one by one, every single time.
“I’m so blue… without you…” Another Christmas song comes to mind as I write advertisements for holiday companies too lazy to do the work themselves. “I feel so blue…” However that Elvis Presley song goes, it sticks in the mind, but what did he know about being blue anyway? He ate his peanut butter & banana sandwiches like a hog. The man grew rich as he gorged himself with the poison of fame. Did he ever stop to think about what his pathway to destruction meant, or was he fooled to the very end thinking that path was pure gold?
I was fooled every time I took that forsaken hit. I feel so old now and much too worn. I remember thinking I would keep doing this till I died. Nothing could ever match up to the euphoria from that last sticky trail on foil, an evil road to hell if there ever was one.
Then I died inside when I lost everything: apartment, family, and future. I guess dying on the inside was enough, because I’m clean as a whistle now as far as heroin habits go. I came out physically intact with a few facial scars and eternal insomnia, but I’m a changed girl, a new woman, right? Right?
Tell that to the girl who snuck out of her boyfriend’s house to meet some Mexican just out of jail, just for a few more, oh, the last hit, I SWEAR. I told him with a smile that I would be back later that day. Whatever. He was a cute dealer, and at the time, I figured I would be back.
Then I return to the house, locked out and as ashamed as a two-faced bitch like me could be. I started crying, but my tears are never real. I got a second chance.
“Use one more time,” They say, “and you’re out!”
“I’ve never known anybody to get off heroin.”
I grimace as they give me the lectures. I smoke cigarettes and sneak vodka to ease the need for blackest devil and best friend. I look at my painted toes, sparkly lies that say I’m still a little girl. Nothing more.
I am nothing more.
“Nothing but blue skies, all day long.” Jazz music sucks. I hate remembering such simplistic joy. The only blue I see is the coldest kind. Blue lips from death and blue veins from my barest survival.
My heart is frozen forever. Heroin cracked the ice and made dark aqua pools of blood gush out.
Everyone asks me, “Do you even care? Are you listening? What do you fucking live for, Crow, because it’s obviously not to love anyone but your DAMN self.” I sit there and stare. I agree with them, but I say nothing, for what could come of any arguments?
They’re humans. Stupid humans, just like me. I observe and see true love bringing them misery, one by one, every single time.
