Hanging on to whatever little sanity I have left.
My body craves for one hit, just one more.
I'll be fine after.
An epileptic fit.
I'm passed out on the ground.
Shaking violently.
It's hot and cold at the same time.
I down some cough syrup to help me sleep.
My dirty secret.
My bad drugs.
One more hit and I'll stop.
Junkie.
Fucking junkie.
That's who I am.
Shame.
Humiliation.
Anything to keep my mind off things.
When I was 12 I thought I'd seen the worst in the workd. But I was wrong.
The monsters lurk everywhere.
They seduce you, charm you.
They have their way with you.
Abandon you after.
My drugs don't.
Always available, that one hit.
I'm shooting up my poison and nobody even knows.
They miss the signs.
The weightloss.
The dark circles under my eyes.
My trembling hands.
"i'm just tired"
That's not entirely a lie.
I am incredibly tired.
Of people.
Of having my heart broken.
One more hit and it'll all be over.
