My Drug.

In the midst of this shit I find myself looking back at you like a bottle of cheap liquor while my good drugs are gone.

You’d be unsatisfying and I know how much better it could be but maybe it might lessen this shit at least a little bit. But what’s a little bit when it still wouldn’t be really any better?

So that bottle stays on the shelf while I daydream about the wild ride I was on and how I want that sweet insanity again, and again, and again.

I press my tongue between my lips and shut my eyes long enough to remember how sweet it tasted. To feel it slide down my throat and burst in my stomach and focus on breathing because your heart just goes fucking wild on it.

I’m always a little on edge and just simply not quite right without and months and months and I wonder when it will end.

I’m sick of the withdrawal.


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