Sometimes it isn’t enough to draw, sing or play sometimes you just ... write. You write because it’s something poisonous in you that has to come out and this vial.. that has been sitting inside me like a golden blue star spotted century egg that is about to burst and release nothing more than what a regular old rotten egg would..
I had been sitting in my room in the same hoodie with my back against the same wall with every cell of my body starved of drugs for days. I was fixing to go boost some otc cough syrup to dull the pain. Shakey handed with still back up against the wall- something solid, something real, something concrete.. not absurd like what my hands were doing. Smoothing the insides and pasting on another layer of tin foil like I was doing a plaster caste of I don’t know.. some celebrity face. Smoothing the foil into the internal caverns and ridges of a beaten red orange leather thrift store bag. The kind with a long strap. The long strap worked nice, I kept the bag open just enough to drop small items
Inside. Eye shadow. Lip balm. Earrings. Anything I wanted really. But this time it wasn’t for no fuckin’ beauty project, maybe after I got some of the OTC in my blood my cells will stop crying so bad for junk.
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