I threw myself in the attic
caffeine and nicotine
and every attempt to mask
the way that I feel
I'm crooked and nervous
and leaning towards a crash
but I look stable
so if you climb on board for another 30 days
we can get an apartment in Nashville
maybe thats just it,
the rest of my days on a farm
or in a cage
or a room with bars
where they can tell me what to think
throw me in the river
or the dumpster
sweetie says I look like batman
caps and rags painted black
when the grass is blue
when I'm kicking the ground
and my toes are battered and bruised
and I puked down the vent
into the basement
a safe place 60 days away
from the last time I got the might
to climb up to the roof
She's so pretty,
I'm just post acute
post equipt
nothing but shit
and 21 more years to lose.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Maybe its just the addict in me, but I finally have a relationship with my parents, and I can finally sleep in my bed without thinking that I'm going to die in my sleep. With all of the little things to be thankful for, I still want to get high. There's a pressure in my forehead-- most likely my sinuses; that bleeds every morning ungodly amounts of blood. This is from snorting speed and benzos on a daily basis for a few months. I used to snort cocaine too, until I would just shake in my bed and whisper, "dear god, please don't let me die. Please god, don't let me die." I never capitalized the whole "god" thing in those days.
Today, I have to think its because of god that I'm alive. I have 62 days clean on my 21st birthday, which is today. I can taste the sugary dissolve of amphetamines on the back of my throat-- the taste of salty, chemical cocaine and ephedrine against my cheeks-- biting capsules of adderall and drinking sambucca or wine; whatever is in the fridge or cabinets. I would time it by my father's watch alarm, "six beeps at midnight. Open the cabinet, take the bottle--" luckily, speed makes you think a thousand thoughts at once, and even writing this I'll admit that I'm shifting back and forth in the chair, thinking the nights I'd feel my chest ounces from exploding. These don't distract you from the mission-- the mission is to get high. We don't come down, musn't come down now, and if we were to come down, it would be through death. And I imagine dying is the best high-- DMT or whatever is released, endorphins or however they're called scientifically-- to produce the best high.
When I over-dosed on Ecstasy, I most likely had a panic attack. It was like watching my life as a ghost-- fluttering in and out of consciousness. Trying to pee, trying to sleep, trying not to sleep before I took my sweat shirt off. There seemed to be a few hours of green screens and "do overs" before the director yelled, "Game over." At this point, I blacked out completely. My body had an orgasm and the entire subway in my ribs stopped running. There was no vibration against the tracks. Then suddenly, it was like Timesquare lighting up from a black out-- the carousel, the marching band-- it all started playing and lit miraculously.
My leg was shaking to the melody. My brother was punching me violently-- pouring water on my face, and making me sip water. I'm not sure if I was sitting up, but I remember vaguely not wanting to die again, and I couldn't piss. I blacked out again on the way to the hospital, and again in the hospital. I couldn't piss on my own without the heart monitor going off. My body temperature was too hot, my heart was pumping too hard, my lithium level was too high. My life was in the hands of a recovering addict name Chuck. I hated him, and I resented him.
A little girl suffered from a fever of a different kind in the bed next to mine; seperated by a curtain. They gave her a lollipop. My lollipop never came. I did, however finally pee on my own. My father watched me in shame the whole time, reciting," Why would you do this. What made you do this. Who were you with? You're done after this, you know that right?" I wanted to believe him, I thought I believed him too. I knew though, if this didn't kill me, nothing would.
Today, I have to think its because of god that I'm alive. I have 62 days clean on my 21st birthday, which is today. I can taste the sugary dissolve of amphetamines on the back of my throat-- the taste of salty, chemical cocaine and ephedrine against my cheeks-- biting capsules of adderall and drinking sambucca or wine; whatever is in the fridge or cabinets. I would time it by my father's watch alarm, "six beeps at midnight. Open the cabinet, take the bottle--" luckily, speed makes you think a thousand thoughts at once, and even writing this I'll admit that I'm shifting back and forth in the chair, thinking the nights I'd feel my chest ounces from exploding. These don't distract you from the mission-- the mission is to get high. We don't come down, musn't come down now, and if we were to come down, it would be through death. And I imagine dying is the best high-- DMT or whatever is released, endorphins or however they're called scientifically-- to produce the best high.
When I over-dosed on Ecstasy, I most likely had a panic attack. It was like watching my life as a ghost-- fluttering in and out of consciousness. Trying to pee, trying to sleep, trying not to sleep before I took my sweat shirt off. There seemed to be a few hours of green screens and "do overs" before the director yelled, "Game over." At this point, I blacked out completely. My body had an orgasm and the entire subway in my ribs stopped running. There was no vibration against the tracks. Then suddenly, it was like Timesquare lighting up from a black out-- the carousel, the marching band-- it all started playing and lit miraculously.
My leg was shaking to the melody. My brother was punching me violently-- pouring water on my face, and making me sip water. I'm not sure if I was sitting up, but I remember vaguely not wanting to die again, and I couldn't piss. I blacked out again on the way to the hospital, and again in the hospital. I couldn't piss on my own without the heart monitor going off. My body temperature was too hot, my heart was pumping too hard, my lithium level was too high. My life was in the hands of a recovering addict name Chuck. I hated him, and I resented him.
A little girl suffered from a fever of a different kind in the bed next to mine; seperated by a curtain. They gave her a lollipop. My lollipop never came. I did, however finally pee on my own. My father watched me in shame the whole time, reciting," Why would you do this. What made you do this. Who were you with? You're done after this, you know that right?" I wanted to believe him, I thought I believed him too. I knew though, if this didn't kill me, nothing would.
Detox took me to Florida-- ugly, flat and mis-shapened like an untimely period on a dotted faced pre-teen girl. I fell in love with blue moons and attitudes that dropped r's like jaws. They all had their ideas about God and politics that weren't much to think about, let alone to change my opinion. Rehab was a lot like a hotel, only without drinking.
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