I can fall in love with a semi-colon, or the way someone sends an instant message: what's up babygirl? I've been called mysterious and intense enough times to make me think I'm allowed some license. A little deceit here and there. I always try hard to do the right thing and I like to think I don't hurt people very often. But it's always there behind my eyelids, slight pressure, blinking on and off like christmas lights. Here and there. The way she pushes her hair behind her ear. How a little boy says "fine" so sincerely. I need something else, something to dull this intensity and nostalgia. Music always hurts more when you're kicking. And the memories of childhood come rushing overwhelming like those waves, losing intensity too slowly as they hit coast after coast. I need something else, something more. Something right now.
I'm a bad girl, but I know how to repent. I know how to make everyone keep loving me, keep wanting to take care of me. I'm good at it.
Right now I'd like nothing more than the press of a needle into clear flesh, plume of crimson registering at the start of the barrel, plunger depressing slowly, tepid mix of water and chemical flushing my bloodstream. Hoping against hope that we cooked the solution enough to destroy whatever germs made it into the pill from the dollar bill she crushed it in. Hoping the bacteria from my tongue when I sucked off the coating isn't running laps around my immune system right now, crashing into white blood cells, contaminating healthy platelets.
Lean back. Close your eyes. You don't have to help her find a vein right this minute because this is going to end too soon anyway.
But instead I have this nausea, this ever-present ache, this useless patch trying desperately to squeeze out a few more drops of fentanyl, desperately responding to my attempts at potentiation: tegaderm, heating pad. Move over honey, I need that heating pad to potentiate my fentanyl patch.
I'm a bad girl, but I know how to repent. I know how to make everyone keep loving me, keep wanting to take care of me. I'm good at it.
Right now I'd like nothing more than the press of a needle into clear flesh, plume of crimson registering at the start of the barrel, plunger depressing slowly, tepid mix of water and chemical flushing my bloodstream. Hoping against hope that we cooked the solution enough to destroy whatever germs made it into the pill from the dollar bill she crushed it in. Hoping the bacteria from my tongue when I sucked off the coating isn't running laps around my immune system right now, crashing into white blood cells, contaminating healthy platelets.
Lean back. Close your eyes. You don't have to help her find a vein right this minute because this is going to end too soon anyway.
But instead I have this nausea, this ever-present ache, this useless patch trying desperately to squeeze out a few more drops of fentanyl, desperately responding to my attempts at potentiation: tegaderm, heating pad. Move over honey, I need that heating pad to potentiate my fentanyl patch.
