Tired
I want to write something, many somethings, but I’m tired. Lots of ideas, no energy to write them.
I feel the Ativan grabbing me by the shoulders, holding me close, breathing softly in my ear. It’s not warm and nice like a lovers touch, it’s cold and lonely. It whispers empty nothings as it lulls me into unconsciousness. A lover’s whisper feels safe, promises something for tomorrow. Held by Ativan, I wake alone, but at least I sleep. My love was my Ativan, sleep warmer, waking brighter.
Share me:
There’s a hole in daddy’s arm
There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes. Jesus Christ died for nothin’, I suppose.
Well, after five sticks, four at home and one in the e.r., I have a new needle. Hopefully, the fucker’ll stay in my arm.
Share me:
