I refuse to wear out life before I exhaust the possibilities of living.
I’m sick. I’m sick with silver spoons and used
Needles. The leather straps have yet to hold
Me back from repeated use: abuse. Mom—
It was a fate worse than purple stained lips.
Induced and conceived from arbitrary desire;
An elusive connection of immediate gratification.
Oh how it was,
How it never should have been—
Mundane sounds of laughter
Masked with the pale stench of gin—