I wasn't born a junkie.
The dog licks the salt of my skin as I feel myself frying in the heat of the midday sun. I would move except I am inside and this isn't really happening. It is just a memory of a day when I stuck to the mattress with my hair matted against the back of my neck with the sweat that only come from a speedball stuffed between two little debbie pies and a flat beer I found from last night. The traveling kid told me his dog was friendly, friendly enough to steal my last piece of fried chicken before I could get the words out to not chew on the bones. I thought I said something but the xanax was talking for me. A lil something about "dkjtyfkuyflui;i" in between wondering if I had lost my ID so I could get my western union in the morning. I had to pee behind two cars. I almost missed my sock this time but I was a bit wobbly. I would change them if it wasn't for the fact that I am four bags deep. The only goal I can reach is scratching my skin to the exposed core of my loneline