Opiate Withdrawal...Again
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This poem is about (yet another) relapse on opiates. I still can't believe how many times I've had to kick heroin, Percocet, Oxycontin and all the other shit I shot, ate, sniffed, etc. I am the definition of fucking insane; I am an addict. I am a junkie who is always in recovery. Unfortunately, I am one who's not always doing well, even when I'm projecting well. Drugs are bad. And I love them. I wish there were a way out for good. I wrote this poem after a relapse. It's a poem about the frustration of relapsing and both the physical and emotional feelings I underwent when the opiate withdrawals began. It may sound like it's a poem about death or dying - maybe even suicide - but it's really not. Those are just the thoughts that go through my head. The truth is, for an addict or junkie in active addiction, death is the easy way out.
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Have you ever asked yourself: "How will I die?"
Today,
Forehead sunk deep
In the palm of my sweat-ridden
Shaky hand,
I weep.
And that question echoes.
How will I die?
Quivering lips
And vision blurred,
Pupils double circumference,
I can't fucking believe it.
How did I get here?
How did I get here again?
Will it kill me?
You crept up
So elegantly this time,
A deceptive glistening moist drip at the tip of a twig.
You crept up
Like an unexpected crush.
Your hypnotic perfume,
And boa constricted grip
Slowly hug my hip,
Slide up my side
To my neck,
A seductive misstep.
You had me at pain.
Again.
And I think you might take my life.
There's a distinct onset,
A crow cawing through the forest.
For some, it's vomiting.
Others, rage.
For me, it's my eyes.
They cloud.
Moisten.
I look through thick triple-paned glass
That has never been cleaned.
Sockets pulsate,
Letting me know,
It's here.
After the eyes come the nose,
The nose lets me know
The sickness will grow.
Just a trickle at first,
A little snot on top of the lip
A wiggle spot to get a fix
Before the shits,
Runs, and flows.
It all wants out.
It finds a way out with no consideration of my agony.
I look at my lost,
Sinking eyes,
And I hide.
Goosebumps and a quivering outstretched hand beg the truth.
I can't believe who I am;
I don't know who I am.
Or is it "what" I am?
And will the "what" continue?
Will it kill me?
Do I know too much?
I know how to hide too much.
I know how to hide pain.
I know how to hide truth.
The problem with that is,
I don't know shit.
I just know I'm here again.
But this time I have responsibility.
But fuck responsibility,
The timer is ticking, telling me to hurry.
Don't get sick.
Nothing else matters.
I got too much to do,
Too much riding on me,
Too much and too many depending on me,
I can't get sick.
So I plan to taper.
How many times have I fucking planned this?
How many times have I
Been high,
And thought I could get out?
Every damn time.
I try. I struggle.
I'm in the depths of hell and finding salvation is just another layer.
Fucking withdrawals.
Again.
Is this the time?
I still wonder: "How will I die?"
But it's just the opiate withdrawal.
Today,
Forehead sunk deep
In the palm of my sweat-ridden
Shaky hand,
I weep.
And that question echoes.
How will I die?
Quivering lips
And vision blurred,
Pupils double circumference,
I can't fucking believe it.
How did I get here?
How did I get here again?
Will it kill me?
You crept up
So elegantly this time,
A deceptive glistening moist drip at the tip of a twig.
You crept up
Like an unexpected crush.
Your hypnotic perfume,
And boa constricted grip
Slowly hug my hip,
Slide up my side
To my neck,
A seductive misstep.
You had me at pain.
Again.
And I think you might take my life.
There's a distinct onset,
A crow cawing through the forest.
For some, it's vomiting.
Others, rage.
For me, it's my eyes.
They cloud.
Moisten.
I look through thick triple-paned glass
That has never been cleaned.
Sockets pulsate,
Letting me know,
It's here.
After the eyes come the nose,
The nose lets me know
The sickness will grow.
Just a trickle at first,
A little snot on top of the lip
A wiggle spot to get a fix
Before the shits,
Runs, and flows.
It all wants out.
It finds a way out with no consideration of my agony.
I look at my lost,
Sinking eyes,
And I hide.
Goosebumps and a quivering outstretched hand beg the truth.
I can't believe who I am;
I don't know who I am.
Or is it "what" I am?
And will the "what" continue?
Will it kill me?
Do I know too much?
I know how to hide too much.
I know how to hide pain.
I know how to hide truth.
The problem with that is,
I don't know shit.
I just know I'm here again.
But this time I have responsibility.
But fuck responsibility,
The timer is ticking, telling me to hurry.
Don't get sick.
Nothing else matters.
I got too much to do,
Too much riding on me,
Too much and too many depending on me,
I can't get sick.
So I plan to taper.
How many times have I fucking planned this?
How many times have I
Been high,
And thought I could get out?
Every damn time.
I try. I struggle.
I'm in the depths of hell and finding salvation is just another layer.
Fucking withdrawals.
Again.
Is this the time?
I still wonder: "How will I die?"
But it's just the opiate withdrawal.