Sunday, November 8, 2009

like Dean Martin that one time.

no more heroin for me. you can call me a lot of things; attention whore, spoiled brat, sex addict, cry baby, failure etc etc, but I am not a junkie. I refuse to be a junkie.

it's Sunday and time evaporates quickly through the pores of my skin.

I miss you, mother says, after sitting by my shaking body for two hours without saying a word. I want you back.
it's a disturbing sight when she gazes out in the thin air like she does sometimes, her grey eyes getting stuck on something only she can see. maybe the lost rhythms of life, if she could ever see them, but as I dig my face into my pillow, I realize that I miss my mother.

you grew old so fast, she says. outside my windows the birds play. they're careless; free. detached from time.
and so did you, I answer.

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