From a dope writer. This is my favorite piece from her.
An hour glass flips, speckled beige granules fold into one another. I like chasing it. Guilt awaits with sunrise, tonight is galactic. Toast, raise the glass. Vodka burns down my neck, warms my chest, nestles near my lungs. With each tilt, I swallow my hate for myself, who I’ve become, and exactly what I am about to do. Eventually, I can’t breathe, I take him into me-- greet him with my face, lead him to the front door, revolve around the back door and any other place in between he can call home. His hands squeeze my limp body loosely enough to siphon air to my lungs, I suffocate into him. I remain. I punish myself. I poison myself. I never feel more alive than being in arm’s reach of death. Cold. Dank. Pitiful. Alive. As if sometimes, the only reason I still have a purpose on this Earth is to awake from a drug-laced rough sex splendor, the smells of salmon and olive flavored vomit, and the crisp chill of checkered linoleum floor.
I was HIV free and my organs hadn’t shut down, God must love me.
-Lauren
No comments:
Post a Comment