Thursday, March 30, 2017

Junkie Boy.

There is nothing like a perfect junkie boy with perfect junkie collarbones feeding me perfect little lies. I look at him, with his pinned eyes. I know that everything will, in fact, not be alright. I want it to be very very wrong. There is something about the way you treat me. There is something about your swagger. The way you make me feel safe then pull that feeling away like a hot cooker. I feel for you. I feel with you. I melt into you while you drift away, dreaming of an endless pile of get well that will keep us together for ever. I love your bruises. I kiss your swollen knee, swollen from running from the security guard when you boosted us those pints of Ben and Jerry's. I would love for you to hold me, those arms cold and clammy. Maybe we can fuck today? Tomorrow? Next month after we get our checks. No, I haven't gotten my period yet but i know I'm not pregnant because I didn't let that trick come inside me. I've told you a hundred fucking times. We were both sick- remember.

Perfect junkie man, where are you? I've called to you so many times. Come tell me that you think I am beautiful. That we can make it together if we try. I will save some of my methadone for you if you will only walk through the door. Promise me you will never go until you leave me once more.

6 comments:

  1. Hard not to cry reading this.


    Morgan

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  2. Tears are falling. For mine will NEVER walk through any door ever again

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  3. Tracey you've got a future in writing! Got an imagination? i imagine so :p

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  4. I remember hearing you on NPR- clearly you have imagination, and plenty of heart :)

    I cried listening to that- I made a healthy decision because of you. Thanks for putting yourself out there.

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