dark lines (connect-the-dots)

my body has become a graveyard
where sinners have been laid to rest (read: rot).
i hide my arms in public
afraid that someone may catch a glimpse
of my permanent stains.
they are like rivers of every porcelain memory
crushed and cooked and shoved into a vein.
the lines are dark, and sometimes,
it feels more like connect-the-dots
than hide and seek.

i must keep reminding myself
that my brain is currently a prisoner
to this darkness. to this drug (and it’s scarlet letter).
i am not who i once believed
now all i can do is wait–
               perhaps i will return soon.

Today’s rising tide of addiction to drug use and a thousand other habits is the consequence of people, rich and poor alike, being torn from the close ties to family, culture, and traditional spirituality that constituted the normal fabric of life in pre-modern times. This worldwide rending of the social fabric ultimately results from the growing domination of all aspects of modern life by free-market economics, producing a lopsided kind of existence that will be called ‘free-market society’ in this book. Free-market society subjects people to unrelenting pressures towards individualism, competition, and rapid change, dislocating them from social life. People adapt to this dislocation by concocting the best substitutes that they can for a sustaining social, cultural, and spiritual wholeness, and addiction provides this substitute for more and more of us.
—  Taken from The Globalization of Addiction: A Study in Poverty of the Spirit (2008) by Bruce K. Alexander.
This City is Stained White With Shame

We have built up this city
this beacon in the night for the nameless
brick by god-forsaken brick
hoping it is enough repentance
for the war crimes of those before.

An amalgamation of stone and iron;
and the Lord himself casts a disapproving glance
across the damned, the nameless
grasping at dime bags
desperate for a sanctuary among thieves.
What have we done?

Do not tell me that you know of despair
until you have braved the depravity
of the dope man’s daily run.
A thousand hollow eyes, glazed over,
their whole livelihood passing between scarred hands
in exchange for the woman in white.
(She will fuck you, but never love you. )
There are no gods in those littered alleys
where memories trip on syringes full of lost hope.
And we have created these monsters–
carved them with our own bloodied hands.

And who will be safe from the impending earthquake?

I read once that romantic love is a type of addiction, not very different from a cocaine dependency. Maybe that’s why it’s been more than six months and I still crave you. After you left, the withdrawal was too painful to handle. I never thought that you would be the drug I was addicted to. I would do anything for another hit, for just another taste of you.
—  M.O.W, Addiction