Obssesion, A Warm Up

I recognize that face, as he stares down from that toilet in the ramshackle of a bathroom. A crazed look of obsession and need painted all over his face. His eyes, glazed and wild, staring intently at the tip of the needle. Sores, open and gaping all over his legs, as he stares intently down at the shiny tip of the needle. Desperation and need, as that fucking tiny, shiny tip of the needle becomes the center of the obsession.

Cuts and sores and bruises, I remember my arms. I remember my neck, and my wrists, and my hands, and my fucking soul. Some cuts are much deeper than others. Slicing into the skin every day, a ritual. The brand new needle slices the skin like fucking warm butter. Every single day, the poking and the prodding, the obsessive look of gotta get the fucking shot. The desperate days where the physical bruises and sores and marks were a map to my spiritual demise, but I did not care about anything when that obsession had taken the fuck over.

I remember sitting on the floor in various hotel rooms, apartments, and houses, for hours sometimes, obsessively poking and prodding. My veins were a fucking wreck in these days from the daily invasions of the poking and the prodding. My blood was always thick and coagulated from all the fucking poisons, drugs saturated my veins in those days making them thick and heavy, as my blood simply would refuse to flow back. Reminded me of pancake syrup when it finally backed up into the syringe. Before, it burst a light red, pumping and healthy, like a poppy flower as it flowed into the syringe, beautiful and enticing. But, in the end, my blood flow was thick and dark, syrupy and bitter fucking sweet. Obsession with the needle, gotta get the fucking shot. I ain’t wasting the shit by putting it up my nose.

Hours and hours wasted, locked away in a bathroom with my obsession with the needle and the veins. Blood splattered ceilings and doors, became a staple of this lifestyle I had become obsessed with. Wasted so many hours, just poking and prodding as I pushed and pulled at my skin, slapping and pulling, and turning and then pushing and prodding. Desperately searching for that deep, deep blue that is just below the fucking surface. It is in there, it is in there, I know it is fucking in there!!!

Thinking about all the wasted hours locked in the bathroom, locked in the thickness and the fucking darkness of the god damned addiction. Images pop up, all the fucking time, and this raging demon screams up on upon my fucking, fucking god damn fucking back. Screaming demon, screaming demon, straight from the mother fucking syringe, my ears are a screaming demon, a screaming demon just screaming, screaming a hollowed out holler of a fucking scream. Shoot that fucking arm full of coke, and the fucking train is screaming from the station. Screaming in my ears and screaming in my throat. Ringing, singing, screaming like a Mimi between my fucking eyes.

Absence, absence, the essence was the light, living in the void, the devoid of this mother fucking century…her..oin. Screaming out to the void in my soul, and turning my life from meaningless into a riddled obsession with the fucking needle get the fucking shot…gotta hit….gotta git, gotta git that fucking shot. Look back, at that face, I know that fucking face. I know that fucking face. I seen it all before….

Obsession taken over the desire to live, as this mechanical soul just takes the fuck over. Emotions are melted on the heat of the spoon, and they dissolve quickly, like the second you pour the coke into the clear, warm brown liquid waiting for the speedball in the bottom of the spoon. No stirring required, just dump all your emotions into the warm shot of drugs in the spoon, and they, too melt away. The fix, the fix…it all fades into nothing as the character of the fucking fix takes center stage. Center stage, that mother fucker.

Fuck it all, sneaking around in public bathrooms because the need of the needle has simply taken over your life. Steal away, at work…steal away for the bathroom, and take a quick shot. Taking a little too long in the bathrooms at even the junky bars, I sometimes reverted to just using the alleyways, hoping no one stumbled upon me. Sometimes they did, and other times they didn’t as I was a junky huddled up in the alley way on the side of some bar in the French Quarter. It wasn’t like I was out on the streets or anything; those alleyways in New Orleans are all a fucking maze, winding around throughout courtyards and all.

I miss the fucking city…time to switch gears and start working on the book. Good writing exercise…