Day Two

Day one karma took my voice, the rasp in it sounded like death. My bones ached and my eyes watered. My nose ran and my back grew tight, intense, and unbearable. I got a call the day before yesterday implying I very well possibly will be fired on Monday, and caught laryngitis which made it's appearance upon waking up yesterday. However; unlike normal, these things didn't feed the rationalization my mind creates in order to get my fix. Things were looking down--trust me I am a pessimist I can make a rainbow look sad-- yet compared to being addicted to heroin those things were nothing. It was like getting hit in the head with a brick, (impossible to ignore unless immediately knocked unconscious I guess, but seriously its something you can't miss) though I don't believe I have been hit in the head with a brick the realization that no matter which path I choose, any path without heroin makes me successful right now. I shouldn't be sad, I should grow up, grit my teeth, and stop being a self-pitying baby reaching for drugs so I don't have to face my own problems. I realized this, and even though I had so many excuses I could have chosen to put getting clean off one more day I didn't want to try to make up one. That hasn't happened to me since I made up an excuse to try heroin the second time! You see (whoever you are), it happened like this: first I tried--and loved--heroin, then I made an excuse to do it once more the next day, but never again. These two first times I smoked it, it wasn't until months later shooting it became an option; an option that I sadly decided was one I would take. After trying heroin again (but shooting it instead of smoking it this time) I made excuses to just do it once a month, no joke next thing I knew it was "no let's do it twice a month" then we wanted to do it "just twice a week," suddenly I was addicted to shooting heroin, the lowest of the low. My body is scarred from the dull needles I have succumbed to using when I couldn't use new ones; however, I never once shared a needle with anyone but my boyfriend. I would just reuse ones I had previously used. Literally from my toes to my neck I have track marks or we rationalize to sound better 'poke' marks. I have shot: My feet, upper and lower legs, stomach, arms (obviously), chest, armpits, neck, shoulder... Disgusting. I wrote a poem during the first heroin high I experienced, I've been writing poetry since I was eight as an escape. If only I knew at that time how far I would delve into this dance with the devil. If only I knew then that this dance wouldn't stop, no matter how many tears were shed because I wanted to.