I died a month and a half ago, laying on the kitchen floor. Needle stuck in arm, and with a head that should’ve been sore. Guess I took more than before. Where did I go wrong? It’s like, I couldn’t get close enough to it, so I just had to go and mainline it. It’s kind of like a lover’s body: you just want to rip it open and crawl inside of it. Words like “Enough” didn’t exist, they could have never survived. Words like those rarely came alive. Like “Limit”, or “Quit”, or simple words strung together such as “Give Up That Shit”. And I’m laying lifeless because of it. Laying lifeless for my fucking vocabulary, or lack thereof, laying lifeless because I could never get “Enough”. Convincing myself that I was good and I was fine, cause I could still do the manual labor to fully supply this love of mine. But, like most loves, there was agony. We had our ups and downs, yet we still thought that we were happy. And then, towards the end, it would give me, like 15 of them. And I, well I would give them my body. I’d let them run and play in my veins and massage my endorphins as they ran down my back, and it’s almost like they knew I loved it…whenever they would do that. But now, my blood sits cold. In a young body with a liver that’s old, and with the ears that heard whenever they were told to just “Stop that shit, and learn to be bold”. And with the mouth that used to tell other’s to mind their own fucking business, now hangs agape in front of friends now subject to witness…me laying lifeless on our kitchen floor. Where did I go wrong, and what for? And as they gather around and start to comment on how to my addiction was true and dutiful, I return to their return, the service…was beautiful.