Sunday, April 17, 2011

The Junkie


And she was my drug…and I the devoted patient: a fine arrangement that was, for she was happy and I was happy.
Devotedly I drugged. On her: pill after pill of pure, incorruptible, blissful blood-in-my-veins portion after portion, I washed down with water, ever-flowing sweetness coating my gutted throat, with pleasure, joy sunshine. She was.
Yes, I was the pathetic patient, pathetic fool I was, but she was my MORPHINE, and I her LOVER, resigned to the fact that I was ADDICTED beyond redemption, beyond reproach. I breathed in HER PERSON, welcomed her to psyche; the very life she lived, I felt in my heart, I too lived and shared her experiences as she did. Yes, I was happy as she was happy.
How it happened after, I am still the fool for never having fully fathomed what happened when it did.
Let’s say, I over-drugged on my beloved MORPHINE, the little controlled doses I had been hitherto administered before were but drops in an abyss; an oblivion of ever-wanting THIRST. Yeah, I think I over-shot myself, or maybe the MORPHINE simply ran out. Another drug at that point was in order.
But I could have none of that. I wanted HER, blindly wanted her, so I could continue my ADDICTION without interruption. I am afraid my nature demands I tune out reason whenever a NEED arises. Yeah, maybe I over-shot myself. I wanted more than I could get. And thus the MORPHINE drug stopped her icy flow in my warm welcome veins.
The withdrawal was mind-racking to say the least. I would shame mental asylums; they have the wrong patients. HERE I AM, roaming free among the sane. What the withdrawal did was force the body, fully-stocked with inexhaustible life-giving MORPHINE to relinquish those reserves.
It wasn’t easy to let go. The MORPHINE was dragged from me, and like fire, it coursed through my veins, scotching, bruising, tearing, clawing its way out of my system. Bulging eyes popping, pearly whites bared in excruciating pain and in threat; spidery arms gripping, grasping at anything and everything in turn. I was the ship wreck that stayed at sea. How could I be repaired among the murky waters as far as the eye could see?
My drug. My MORPHINE, when the time comes, when I shall be given YOU anew, the question is, would I still be wanting of such insane self-destruction? Haven’t I had enough?



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