I’m trying to quit.

I got hooked on you and I didn’t want to give you up just yet. But I think now it’s time to separate our paths, at least for a while.

Oh Hell, you made me feel special. I thought you were that single chemical left for me to be complete. I thought I was that single bloodstream left for you to be brought to life. But you’re just a drug. You give away yourself to anybody who asks for you. You made me as special as any junkie is.

You were supposed to make me happy and you did, but for such a brief time. Now you’re just making me ill. The more I want you, the less you give me. I take one step forward and you’re taking a step back. You never met me half way, but left me here alone, stranded to the scaffold, crucified on your stupid promise of a larger-than-life journay.

You know they say quitting drugs is just a matter of will, strength and patience. Oh, but they haven’t met you, darlin’…

For me, quitting you is just a matter of survival. Will I get through the day without you?

I get up at sunrise with one only thought: “wish you were here”. But you’re not. I’ve thrown away the last dose two days ago. So I brush this stranger’s teeth, not recognizing her in the mirror, thinking that I could kill anybody for you to come back in my system. Then I get my existence the hell out of the house, wishing to be rammed to death by the only drunk motherfucker stupid enough to drive this early in the morning. And then I get to work.

I can’t breathe. I can’t talk. I’m out of focus. My heart pumps like this hysterical kick boxer who OD’s daily from too many steroids. My blood cells pop like hot corn. My brain dreams backwards in slow-motion. I sweat adrenaline and feel like I’ll drop dead in my own vomit in the next few
seconds. I hate myself and I hate you for leaving me like this. Here. Alone. Unsatisfied.

So I fill up my day with many, oh, so many pointless, peculiar, ludicrous tasks, just to take my mind off of you. I want you! I want you, my lymph screams in pain and I want to crawl up the walls and bite the ceiling. But then I remember I have to quit, so I manage to stay sober till lunch.

Lunch, on the other hand, is a bridge too long to cross and still remain half-sane. When I chew my food mechanically (‘cause I can’t feel its taste anymore), my mind deflects my body for better worlds. It usually rides wild horses in the Grand Canyon. But for two days now, it takes off erratically, just to find itself splashed onto your image and taste, like a fly on the windshield of a speeding car. You know that ugly spots on windshields? Blood, intestines and broken wings? Yeah, that’s me thinking of you.

After lunch it gets better. I only think about you a thousand times, hands shaking, head aching, lungs choking.

I now skip dinner. I’d rather drink myself next to a coma, just to get a vague sensation of some sleep happening. In your absence, sleep became a luxury I can’t afford. I wet the sheets, I toss and turn and scream. I masturbate (no point in that though, you infected my blood with your sweetness that hard, the stupid son of a bitch doesn’t reach those far corners of my body anymore). I dream about you and it pisses me off so bad, I get up and drink again. Pale illusion compared to you.

I’m crushed under the sickening idea that it is healthier for me not to feed myself from you any longer.

I know I have to quit

Thinking of you

Desiring you

Searching for you in the darkest of corners, in the latest of hours.

But I’m a junkie. I’ll always need you. And you’re a drug. You’ll always exist only because I want you. And I will want you back someday, so we will be trapped in this tango of death forever.

But for now, my crystal-meth Ken, my Barbie just wants to go to sleep for a while, in her glass coffin where you found her for the first time.

She is at a kiss distance away from awakening though, and I think  that she (stupid as any woman) will be still waiting for you to crush her one more time against your power of addiction…

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