death by paper cut

satire

I muddled my mind and wiped off my shoes at the front door.
escalating the porch off Percocet and Hennessy
head unborn

A wreck, chaos, bullet-backed words as I exit the motel room. Cockroaches on the pizza he left on the sink counter the night before. Where I held his head up high, and he said I was more important than the drugs that ensued us.
He left me the next noon to get one more.
Four more. Enough to kill himself if I left. Why does our love in case us? I'm more critical than the pills, but he left me on that bed for hours, muddled mind, body, and spirit.

One more. Four more. And I love him more than almost anything, mostly everything. Except the moonshine my dad gave me when I was a sick-headed kid, the acid my ex gave me when I told him what those men did, and the fentanyl Annie promised would fix my muddled mind and head unborn. He's everything but not enough. I'll always compete for your love. What does it take to become undone?

There's something about the way you move around me...
distance yourself at the image of me dying. -and how I've been playing a detrimental game of spades. I haven't yet pulled an ace. I don't know if there's an easy way to say everything. I'm burning at the touch.

I wanted it all to go away. The drugs got here quicker as I slinked through the motel of your broken heart. He's falling in love with the idea, and you're just becoming a shell of me—all the empty promises and words that meant nothing.

I will grow from the pain, and you will be an image that fades into my warped sense of reality. I hope you find the words one day and tell me I was more than this—more than a disease.

I stopped writing for three years because of what those men did to me. Are you ready to talk about your misery? or is it just a temporary fix when the dope doesn't sting?