no rest for the wicked

Everyday mantra

Here and again, I remember who I used to be. Before the needles and the pills, before the sour taste in my mouth, before meaningless kisses, I was at peace with myself. I was warm and loved and stupid enough to throw it all away for something “different.” My family doesn’t love me anymore. They don’t want me. Christmas at home doesn’t happen for me these days; I don’t have a home. I find myself in shacks in the woods and under bridges with my own kind nowadays, unkempt and hopped up on God-knows-what. Now where am I supposed to go if I’m tired of the way I am living? I can’t brush my teeth. I can’t eat. I hardly sleep. All I can do is wish on 11:11 and tune out the world and pray to a God that I only hope exists. Heroin was my heroine. It saved me at first. But lately, it’s been my worst enemy. Xanax was my lover. I couldn’t get enough of it before, but now I realize that I’m better off without it—I just can’t let it go. I am an abuser. I am an idiot. I am nothing. Family is not an option anymore. All that’s left for me in this world is myself and the drugs. Perhaps there is hope for love. But the drugs don’t seem to love me back anymore. And if they don’t love me, who will?