So I’ve been homeless for a bit now and a couple of days ago I was told that I’m welcome to stay at this place that’s essentially a trap house. Only it’s different than I expected. It’s like 3 apartments in one and everyone has a chore they do to keep the place clean, there’s running water and electricity, the bathroom and kitchen is fairly clean. Everyone has something they’re good at that they bring to the table to help the household out. Every one fills the fridge with food and this one lady here cooks meals for everyone because she loves to cook and it’s like having a 5 star meal! When someone gets an abscess or needs to go to the hospital we encourage each other to go or offer to take them or go along with them for support. When my neck was sore from the miss I got in it everyone asked if I was ok, brought me warm wet towels to apply on it, and asked me over the hours how it was healing.
Basically, it feels nice to feel like I’m apart of a family or like I have some place I belong for once.
Being dope sick on Thanksgiving with money in my pocket makes me more than mad. I have crystal, but that doesn’t fix the problem of being sick. It kinda helps in a weak ass punk bitch kind of way, but it doesn’t make the sickness really go away. I want to feel good and try to enjoy the holiday as best as I can without my family talking to me. I need to find someone to rob before I start really losing my mind. Time for me to turn into Darth Vader and start taking what I want by any means necessary. I’m going to bust a shot of clear right now and fuck up my third eye. Meth makes my moral compass lose direction and right now that is just what I need.
So I just landed a bag of dark and I am once again feeling like normal junked out self. Today is Thanksgiving, and I want to share with you all of the things that I am thankful for. First and foremost I am thankful for my girlfriend Faith, the person who pulled me out of the depression that I was in after Hannah and Mae. She has taken the time to get to know me and look beyond the fact that I have no career or stability. She puts up with me when I’m dope sick, hustles up money when I fuck all of mine off and gives it to me, makes me food. She even goes and gets me heroin and points when I am really sick even though she doesn’t use dark or needles. I am thankful for my little sister Lissy who is also lost in the dope game. She is the only family member that still speaks with me, and despite the fact that she has stolen from me numerous times, I love her and would rake a bullet for her any day of the week. She is a beautiful spirit and I try my hardest to keep her safe in this fucked up lifestyle. Finally, I would like to thank my family. Even though they no longer want me around or speak to me, I love them. They made me the broken but understanding man that stands here today. It is because of them that I possess the tenacity to keep going even though I am broken to pieces inside. They are what I’m thankful for, because without them, I would have no reason live and hope that I can one day rise above the drugs and violence that currently dominates my life. I’m also thankful to any person who has taken the time to explore my blog and look at things through my eyes. I hold nothing back when I write this, I am 100% genuine with my emotions because I will probably never see or know you. I have no reason to hide my feelings, so I guess that you know me better than my close friends. You see behind the mask, and I’m thankful to have that. I love the messages of support and the advice I get. A few times I received a message that made me reconsider killing myself. Thanks for getting to know me.
At 23, you flew to Kansas City, read poems at Charlie Parker’s grave. At 23, I was saddled to someone with an eye for my best friend. At 23, you’ve published a chapbook. At 23, I was working three jobs, saving nothing. At 23, you have created an arts scene in your town from nothing, rose above the trappings of addiction and malaise. At 23, I watched friends peel away from me like dead skin. At 23, you possess a fire of creativity. At 23, I had given up on writing. At 23, you are already a greater presence than I’ll ever be.
and you are up again—the covers curled into a soft wall against my body in an attempt to shield me from the sound of your feet on the floor that creaks under the pressure. Small cracks of light peek through the sides of the closed bathroom door, and I can hear you retching, the sound of you quietly sobbing. I lean against the hard, cold wall and wait for you, offer my arms as solace as you emerge, hope that your treatment doesn’t swallow the remains of your slowly fading light.
Big boys don’t cry
I’ve set things to be trashed out to the curb: the old chair that you swore was the culprit for your ailing back, the used tissues you piled at the side of your computer, the dead pens scattered like chewed bones. The greeting cards of birthdays and holidays past. The watches you never wear. The pages of poems I’ve written about you. The useless muscle in my chest, which has run out of beats.
This town is a black hole
This town cannot stop swallowing people in its orbit. It takes them in its mouth and spits them in front of trains, leads them to garages with running cars and a deep, deep sleep. It pushes the fragile to the steep cliffs of Alpine, gives a hard shove over the edge. The husks of the broken are scattered across the well kept lawns of cemeteries—all left as dates on stone, as fragments of the helpless.
High Enough to Carry You Over
This mirror doesn’t see the softness, the parts hidden by the flesh you despise. I could show you with your eyes closed, the quiet breaths filling our tiny space-the ways your silhouette falls in with my frame. You are honey poured slowly, the last drop caught by my finger. You bathe bloodshot eyes in spring rain. I will cloak you from dirty hands and the pieces of broken vows. I will lift you beyond everyone’s grasp.