Staring at Ceiling

Staring at the ceiling as the morning crawls into my conscious mind. Here I am again. The first words out of my mouth "I hate my fucking life. " I am too tired to kill myself. I am too strung out to stop . Addiction has put me In a place of suspended animation. I am frozen in this spot where my inaction is gnawing my body away with withdrawal. My flesh creeps up my neck and my legs are crawling up the sheets with twitches that would make Lazarus rise from the dead and beg for mercy.

How can I do do this again? I am too tired to scrounge the world. I am too sick to give up. Can I just lay here and be miserable. No bitch, get up. The monkey makes me cry in pain. I need a fucking fix, not a cure. I am not broken. I am just keenly aware that I am not in charge. GET UP NOW. My body resists the pull of the hustle.

I would get dressed but I fell asleep with my clothes on. I am in the special place. The fuck it place. I do not care what it takes today. I am going to get up and achieve the means to some ends. THIS is fucking happening today. If I could only get out of bed. Spin, spin, spin goes the walls. Turn, turn turn goes my stomach.

Like the Junkie Phoenix I will rise from this bed! The landscape will provide. I am both a hunter, a gatherer, and a scavenger of any tasty remnants. Let my self esteem be damned, I will go forth and and find a way score. If I could just sleep five minutes more...

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