Or so they think.
It has all become a game. Where can I hide my Syringe? Is it possible to crush pills with minimal noise? Can I get high in ten minutes without anyone suspecting? This little game of cat and mouse.
The reality is, I only lasted until Day 3 before I was shooting up again. The hiding places had gotten better. Underneath fake acrylics. Between fingers. Underneath bra straps.
I cannot get enough of this blessed drug. The pain from injection depreciates the pain of rejection, imperfection, and introspection. Lock myself away and squeeze the trigger that guides me into sugar-coated delirium.
Secret lovers, we have become—my Syringe. He caresses my body and gives me an elevation that grants me invincibility. Without him, my body cannot cope. Withdrawal. Hands shaking. Body tremors. Rapid pulse. Kryptonite needles are necessary to keep me sane. Stray jackets cannot prevent my thoughts. Loss of sleep until he is back in my hands. In my veins. In my body. Inside of me.
Poetry is my drug, and I am addicted.