JOYRIDING

/one/

I wake up – luckily – in Pete's bed; alone.
I'm glad.
Typically I wake up in places I have never been with faces I have never seen. It's what I expect. So, mornings like this are kinda nice, because I don't have to wonder; I don't have to worry about what I may have done. Who I may have kissed, fucked, whatever. Whatever else I could've fucked up.
These mornings are simple, and they're the only thing I miss. But the pull of addiction is stronger than these mornings. These mornings are weak, and that is their single fault. They can't tether me or encourage anything to change.
I guess, in a way, I wish they could.
But self destruction is my path – it's never dull or boring, and it's one of the more fun things you could do. Or so I tell myself.
So I sit up – shattering the morning – and sip from the glass of brandy on the bedside table.
Then I reach over, pick up a probably not sterile point, and inject a mystery drug into my not-so-easy-to-find veins.
I shiver as the high hits me hard – meth.
It feels so fucking good.
And just like that, these mornings slip away.
Out of sight, out of mind.