I’m searching my veins with one hand, your passion in my mouth, while with the other I masturbate imagining you flooding me. I am every God damn junkie’s femme fatale.

My skin shivers in retrospection, in imagination and in hell. My fingertips smother my thirsty lips. I wake up in convulsions, barely breathing. Huge jaws bite my spine, inhuman claws reap my ovaries. I am a spasm of desire. My body wants you as it never wanted before nor water, or air, or peace. I’m hungry.

I tried to quit. Honest to God, I tried. It was supposed to be easy ‘cause it all began to seem a little offbeat at some point. Obsolete and futile. My Melissa P was bored to death to Franz, and my Humbert Humbert was sick and tired of Rebecca. I went all the way down to system failure.  Baise-moi was just a pretext. Bitter Moon was just Lolita with more skills.

So I quit. Got clean. Thrown away the needles and the tourniquet. Miss little sunshine was back in town.

But it just doesn’t go away. The pain, the wanting, the lip-biting, the masturbating, the fire in the joints, the cracks beneath the brain, the torture of the skin, the self inflicted bruises, they never disappear and everything’s in vain.

I tried to replace the emptiness with soft stuff, normal stuff and average up-the-vein-circling-the-drain substitutes. They didn’t work either. I was lost. My numbness jumped me straight in a coma.

And then, you happened to me. Your sparkles, diamonds of pain. Your color, white as the darkest angel. Your smell, Eve stripped and chained to the Life Tree. Your taste, bitter cherries with a scent of animal violence. Your perfectly engineered design to please and make dreams come true.

Your gift of sneaking into my plasma, playing hide and seek in my synapses, licking my neurons, electrifying my eyeballs, pushing my heart above and beyond.

And I was hooked again.

I am made of sequences of time and space. No yesterday and no tomorrow, but “last time I choke to death inhaling you” or “last time I felt the world spinning like a pill under my tongue”.

I know you don’t want me. You don’t even need me. You’re just sitting there on the shelf, waiting for me, watching me kneel and summon your powers. I am a vessel to you, a plastic puppet who will do just about anything for an overdose of lust.  I feel you laugh at me, at my desperation, at
my end.

I know how bad you can hurt me. And how bad I can hurt myself. But I don’t care. I need my dose. It’s been too long and now I feel my jaws crack and tears bursting from my chest just looking at you. Do you want me to take the first step? I’ll lick every inch of the wrapping that hides your core, but I will get to you.

I live my life in passing moments between rehab and reincarnation.

I will quit you too soon, though. I’ll find a way. If I cannot live with the pain of wanting you and then falling back into you, again and again and having you as I had you before, and then forgetting about you, If I can’t live the rush and die from it, then why live at all?

My crystal-meth Ken, you woke my Barbie to the ceiling. Just please, don’t disappear before I get to taste one more time the heaven that  you bring to mortals.

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