"Why come waltzing in, giving me hope, having sex with me then leave again. If you’re going to leave, just leave. Don’t string me along with hope for a week after you were gone two months."
The last time I was drunk, I made the mistake
of getting high at the same time. When my lips touched
the cool glass of the curved bong, it felt like I was
kissing a promise, opening myself up to a hug that
picks me off my feet and lifts me through the air because
they are so happy to see me again. Everything gets a
little bit fuzzy after that. The next thing I remember is that
I am sitting on the step of the deck and the wood is so hard
and I am so cold and my hands are shaking so hard
the water bottle you have given me is spilling out onto my
legs and I’m not laughing like I should be and my hair is
sticking to the back of my neck because it is so humid
and I think I am losing it. But people keep coming up and
asking me if I’m okay, do I need more water, do I need to go
to the washroom, how do I feel, how am I doing, and I can’t
speak because I can’t feel my teeth but I think I nod and give them
a thumb’s up as they flicker in and out of my vision like that soft
spot on the radio that is in between two channels; not one
or the other but a little bit of both at the same time, two songs
overlapping, dancing on each other’s laps, kissing with tongues,
mouths like open backpacks and my friends are at the gate
and I’m saying I want to go home. I don’t remember standing up
and I don’t remember walking but now I’m on the grass, I’m on
the grass and there is wood behind me that my head keeps slightly
knocking against and there is wood to my left, I made an L with my
hand to find my left, there is wood to my left and my knee is
bumping against it, and the world is spinning and I am so aware of
how hard gravity is working to keep me from floating away.
Nobody understand how scared I am at this point. I am screaming
but I can’t tell if it’s in my head or not. My mouth is shaped like
the pulled back arch of a bow, ready to slingshot harsh words like
arrows at the people who let me be this stupid, at myself, at myself,
at myself. Tears are filling my mouth, all salt and stupidity. My
friends are rubbing my calves, telling me that I need to focus or
else I’m going to turn off like a flickering light. I am trying but
everything is moving so fast and people’s voices keep getting so loud, it is a party after all and I can’t stop thinking about how I
am ruining it for everybody. But my cheeks have gone numb and I put
my fingers to my lips to see if they are still there, dried up like
toes in the bathtub for too long, and my fingernails are gone
because I must have bitten them off and I can’t stop crying because
I feel as if I am dreaming and waking up over, and over,
and over. The drugs are ripping through my body, tearing apart sense after senseless. Telling me I don’t need to see through the tears
because the world is a dazzling blur that I don’t need to be a part of, and I don’t need to speak because my voice isn’t pretty enough and my stutter’s profound, and my heart can keep racing to catch up to my thoughts and my legs will keep shaking because they are trying
their best to help me run away from this feeling because nobody can come pick me up to take me home. And I wondered if a high was only a high if you let it be, and maybe a low was only a low if you were me.
Two Saturdays Ago by k.p.k
(Source: pikeys, via covenn)
If only these words weren’t burned on your skin.
"There’s a huge part of me that wants him, no matter what he’s doing when I’m not around. There’s a huge part of me that just wants his skin and flesh. There’s a huge part of me that loves the drug induced oblivion, the blur of events that bring me instant pleasure and spin me into depression when I’m drunk and suddenly feel alone or when the party is over and I have to go home. There’s a huge part of me that wants to keep drinking it down, ignore the pain inside my chest and in the deep folds of my brain, and keep living life for the moment, not the future. That’s a huge part of me."
Remember back in 5th grade, when everyone vowed not to ever do drugs
because the only kind of love I know is the kind that gets left if your bed when you go.
You never get over it. But you get to where it doesn’t bother you so much.
—Jeffrey Eugenides, The Virgin Suicides (via bbijoue)
(Source: larmoyante, via sophiesbloog)
This is all I am…
Yes, Kelly Blevins