Waiting for anything
There was an old man that used to drive by when I was sitting on the fire hydrant. On the warm fall afternoon, I would feel the nod slowly creeping up on me. I would sit with my eyes closed like a cat in the windowsill. He would beep to get my attention. I would wave him on. “Never- not on my worst day would I go with you...” I would choke on those words a few weeks later. I was young then. I had long black hair, blue eyes. My lashes were as long as the track mark that snaked from the pit of my elbow to my wrist. I was skinny then. I was thin for the first and only time in my life. Six months of daily heroin use had whittled away my appetite to nothing but an occasional home run fruit pie or little Debbie snack cake. My leggings covered the bruises- I took too many klonopins and tumbled down the stairs last night. I woke up sick this morning, overslept my medication. I flip my hair for effect as the cars go by. Waiting for anything and nothing to happen.