Flash Fiction / Sacrilege of Yesterday
As the novacaine wears off and the cocaine sets in, I can remember exactly who you are. You are the supplier of the rage that shoots straight into my veins. You are the needle I force into my tearing skin everytime I need a fix. Ultimately, you are my fix. I swallow you whole, you take me half-heartedly, assuming you have any heart at all. Transfixed on the effects of your heroin, I solemnly swear you will forever have a hold on me. I will be your filthy whore as long as you continue to feed me my chemical imbalance, pushing me further into the infectious wound used to conform around the compass of lost direction. I am a native here on this floor coated with memories of drug-induced comatose. My pipe is full of remnants of your bulimic past, purging away the wasted cellulite of broken love and fixed abandonment. The scars fade but never go away, never heal, never feel the same, again. They ache their way above the surface of what you were, striving to be better, but just standing out in an ugly facade of cat-scratch excuses. You are my cat-scratch excuse, as the blood curdles through the thin straight-lined incision of which they say, “it’s too perfect to be an accident.” And, I agree, as we collide and shatter into each other, crossing paths but falling past; we were too perfect to be an accident. You never could agree with me, as if it were some religious bond which held you back. As you shake your skull in disapproval, you remain the source of my godlike fixations. You know the acts of relinquished adoration too well to desert me, but you always hold me down as you push me up, egging me on with your empty eyes; “higher, higher,” they tonelessly chant. Merciless, I reach for you, killing myself along the way, overdosing on attempted love and crooked addictions, just to win your heart. Now, look at what we’ve become; two lost souls that dove out of the fish bowl, dried up and forgotten, dead to a world that couldn’t see how alive we once had been.
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