Frightening! I appear to have forgotten
the art of turning your stomach
inside out. How curious but
not unexpected. I've been
wildly out of practice,
I admit.
Earlier in life,
when I strived for skin
and bones to be observable;
I've been known to,
here and there,
partake in
flicking the bag.
But mainly I just starved.
The frequency picked up when
the alcohol became cigarettes
and weekends became blurs.
Drinking pure spirits was
a sport and despite my
frail body, I was
a champion.
One time when I was fourteen
I drank two bottles of
cheap whiskey and
slept for two days,
vaguely submerged
in stomach acid
and a little bit of blood,
courtesy of my esophagus.
And then the opioids came
and took me under their
warm, sterile wing.
Since I only took the pills when
the clock struck twelve,
I'd withdraw daily
and sleep.
The price was sprinting towards the ceramic and resting my head on the cool rim
Nuzzling my grey pal before spewing
bile and stomach acid thrice
every morning or scratching
my head and pulling out
fistfuls of hair, waking
up on the floor more
times than I can
truly remember.
I did that for two years
from fifteen to seventeen
with little to no breaks.
When I woke up one
morning, with my head
propped up against
the wall and a puddle
of thick, black gunk,
moved along the
rhythm of my
shallow breath,
warming my chest.
I brushed the blood
off my teeth and
went back to sleep.
Every now and then I
break my streak, mostly
in weak moments when
it's difficult to stay and not
take my leave. But it's
never more than a day
because it stopped being
a relief, now more of
a reminder that I'm
doomed to remain
clean. At least in terms
of opioids, now I mostly just
smoke **** or drink
a little bit too much.
I remain a work in progress.
So I guess I'm out of
practice. But it seems
like that's a good thing.
