eleven needles

eleven needles laying on the counter,
the savage demon on full display -
spoons with blackened bottoms and
dirty cotton swabs scattered amongst the marble
along with splashes of darkened dried liquid

the orange caps on the various syringes
pointing myriad angles, creating a talisman
of such impulse and craving -
with an unmatched gravitas that envelops and dampens the spirit until it is merely a broken husk

and the altar on the bookshelf,
the dulled needles you use to force through flesh and vein,
the small ceramic pot to keep the old cottons in -
brown blood and grey with residual dope -
and the folded papers and various bags

and outside that magnolia you planted,
which in-bloom was the spectacle of the garden,
now it fades with disease and rot
barren and splintered so that even terminates refuse

the crisp April air portends what summer has for us,
and I take solace that at least there is some warmth,
some elemental assurance to continue fighting,
that the battle for your soul is not yet over,
that we can still defeat the passenger deep inside,
with its hooks sunk in and puncturing
ev ery chil dhood me mory you lo ng for,
ev ery trau ma you sh ove dee p wit hin you,
eve ry hear tbrea k and disap pointment,
eve ry br oken pro mise and unf ulfilled dr eam

eleven needles, and you found everything within
e v e r y s i n g l e o n e:
the one that led you down the staircase,
the one that led you through the hallway,
the two you needed to get through the basement,
and the one that almost stopped your heart,
and almost left you a grey-faced statistic,
causing blood and froth to erupt from you,
as twenty hands shot forth from the floor
and tried their damnedest to drag you away

yet still you remain.
so rudely forced.
but still here.
only if for now.