*** Clean for long time ***
Shooting Heroin for the First Time
A bruise in the crook of my arm.
I always said there were some things I’d
never do.
I lie all the time.
Can’t you see through my bullshit?
Don’t you see my arm poised
to throw bricks at glass houses?
All night I talked shit about, bitched about
Heron Pat.
Yet so easily I could become him.
The barely forming
pink purple blue brown
bruise
at the crook of my arm,
marking the location of a vein.
And yes, I hate this.
And I’m afraid of what it will do
to the other side of the coin,
Victor Ward/Johnson,
the kind of speaking in quotes
and saying nothing at all.
And yes, I’m afraid
of that simple warmth,
a belt pulled tight around an arm,
bruises,
a lack of emotion,
feeling.
Beautiful boy,
partner in crime.
He called it the ultimate antidepressant.
I cannot disagree.
Blood rushing through veins and arteries,
delivering chemicals to heart and brain and
other vital organs.
That can be ignored,
the damage,
when I feel oh so goddamn good
and you don’t matter
and all I want
is to raise hell
with the platonic love of my life
and do more.
Feel the warmth travel
and never worry about you
or it or he or she or
any mistake bygone
situation, ridiculousness
because my blood will be liquid lava
and just as urban sprawl increases
so will mass transit
and the tracks,
they will multiply.
And I,
I will always want more.
copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews
