Death by Stigma

     Upon opening my eyes, there would be an invariable sense of disgust with myself, along with an immense desire of going back to sleep. 

     Never to wake again. 

     My mind would lie in a river of emotions as my body laid in a lake of cold sweat. 

     A mysterious someone—or something, rather— had the one-bedroom/one-bath apartment I dwelled-in renovated into a kitchen freezer, without the permission of my conscious self. 

     I could only guess who that someone could be, and I was certain it was there with me. 

     I knew for sure it wasn’t the sleeping beauty that laid next to me. She had only been a witness to the chaotic, hellish existence I had made of my life. 

     There was no “living” that life. Like a crushed beer can on the side of the road, I merely existed. 

     She sat and watched without a thing to do, as I calmly killed myself with every cold needle to the vein. 

     In the deadly game of Russian roulette I played with the Devil, I had no idea she would turn from a mere witness to an innocent victim. 

     It’s not an option to live a life void of regrets. 

     At least, for me it’s not. 

     I am forever cursed with the torment of being responsible for giving my best friend’s hand over to the grim shadow. 

     The collector of souls. 

     Souls of the loved ones we reap. 

     I’ve offered mine every chance I had. 

     Evidently, to no such avail. 

     Only to be left in this decaying world full of the hypocritical, who speak loudly of saving the world, while flicking a lit cigarette out the window of their diesel-addicted Ford Tree-Raper. 

     Until the day death ultimately accepts my gift, I’m sick with remorse. 

     An incurable plague. 

     The stigma of being a drug addict. 

Leave a Reply