Mar 102014
 
Snow hill

Snow hillHer love for him was fresh and untainted. It was a sunny day with a hill of untouched snow. It was delicate. It was a pretty picture.

Their tracks went back and forth on top of the hill. They hung on to each other for better footing. Neither wanted to upset the fragile allowance beneath them. In time, steps became stomps and walking gave into a run.

On her way down, she felt a hand at her back, not one that offered aid. Her body cleared a path down the hill. The snow hid the branches that tore at her clothes. The slicked grass permitted her no foothold.

She slid. He watched from the top. He was stoic. She relinquished flesh and tears to the tumble. There was no pardon for her. It was inescapable. Every rock, branch, and punch of earth was a recitation of what she already knew; but had to live through to pocket the experience.

Be careful who you climb hills with.

 

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Feb 092014
 

In the dead of goodbyes, I would have swallowed my pride.

I would have set the past aside. No hard feelings inside.

***

But you, couldn’t see what was true. Couldn’t feel me and you.

You were afraid of what we’d do. I was afraid of it too.

***

I could feel you grow. You let it show. You let me know.

But you had to go. Excuses I’ll never know. Cards you’ll never show.

 ***

No more wailing inside. I patched up my pride. Your bullshit won’t ride.

No more reasons to hide. I set that part of me aside. A lesson learned in stride.

Aug 022013
 
Dirty needles

Dirty needlesShe fingered the baggie in her pocket and smiled at the score. It was a quick hustle to get back to the shop and her closet in the back. To tell you the truth, she was lucky to have it. For two weeks, she was chasing the dragon out front of an old Chinese man’s antique shop before he finally half-drug her scrawny ass inside and out of the rain.  He gave her a room. Or a large broom closet, but either way, it came with a pillow and a blanket. Sometimes, if he was feeling generous, a meal. But it was set outside her door as if she were a cat.

It also came with an extreme amount of Chinese yelling. He wanted help at the shop. She didn’t mind until he got to the point where he was shaking his fist. He’d shake his fist when she’d bang on the door at ungodly hours. He’d shake his fist if she was getting dope sick. He shook his fist when she called him “Mr. Miyagi.” He was funny, this guy.

It was just him. No family. He had a small little set-up, you just had to walk up the stairs from the shop. He was able to keep an eye on almost everything. Mr. Miyagi knew she took the spoon. It was the one from under the counter. Obviously it’s replacement didn’t fool him. He shook his fist at that, too. But at least he didn’t put her out. Anyone else would have.

She opened her worn box, all taped up with stickers, its soiled surface a sad reminder of it’s continued use. The only new addition was that silver spoon. The end had a beautifully scrolled “R,” on it. She did feel bad about taking it. But, the initial….

She had her needles. She didn’t share. She’d set her little box up and got to work. After a quick chop, she’d set flame to spoon and suck up that precious golden fluid. Once it was in the rig, she reminded herself to breathe. Everything was set aside, and out came her belt. Loop by loop and her tongue was salty with the taste of the dirty material. Her teeth dug in for a good pull, looking for her new mistress.  It was always…  just the newest one. Soon, it’d collapse and be a sad reminder of what she couldn’t do. Just like the others.

She only had to pull back once before she hit it. The perfect pull, the rosy swirl of her blood, she gave the plunger a nice, slow push.  It was always at this moment that she remembered how much she hated needles when she was a kid.

Mr. Miyagi would be so mad if he knew what she was using that spoon for. She was able to feel the world again. So much clearer. A hard clear.  For time that seemed like hours, but were really only moments. And she wasn’t all that clear. That spoon. It was in her head until nothing else was.  He’d find out about the spoon the next morning, when the Coroner left and he had to clean out Rocky’s room.

 

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Jan 092010
 
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I told him I didn’t know what to do.

He said he would figure out something.

I said it was in his hands now.

He said … no better place.

I told him I was scared.

He said I should be, I was fucked.

I wasn’t getting out.

He said he wasn’t giving it back.

For the first time in a long time… I felt safe.

Those words were like cardboard cupcakes, bright, shiny, and beautiful from a distance.

Couldn’t make a dent in them if I tried, even with all the rocks I threw. They held strong.

But when I walked up close, to see what the problem was…

Those cupcakes were  not at all what they seemed to be. I stood there alone, playing back his words, and cried.

I’m eating his words. Drinking his words. Smoking his words. Feeling them, blow by blow, sucking them in, having them carved into me from the inside, swallowing them down as they scrape my throat, my insides… slowly, painfully… all the way down to where they will scar my guts and everything I got on the inside.

I could try to hide it, but I don’t care, really.

Let him enjoy his work.

Let me learn my lesson.

They hurt when I swallow them. Just as he said, those words are strong and unyielding, so they don’t easily bend when I urge them deeper inside of me. Their pointy sides dig into me and puncture me. They needle me.  They just fucking hurt.

I’m eating those words to teach myself a lesson.

Never take anything sweet from a stranger.