Saturday, March 26, 2016

One of those stories circa 2011 (Methamphetamine)

Our eyes met (glowing like acid) to the soundtrack of some second-rate punk band. She wanted some speed so I sold her a bag. We fucked for hours. Her scent met mine. She was troubled, abuse wedged inside of her like needle. But her eyes were kind. They took me away for a while no matter how dilated. I loved her more than she loved herself. We loved our self-destruction. Explosive as a shot of dope. My sickness caught up to hers and here I am. She vanished passing on her inheritance a habit, to kill the pain leftover from the day she went away

No comments:

Post a Comment