Some Addicts Die a Saint
Illustration by RK Tiu
The way I write down things I believe to be holy, you’d think I’ve somehow seen god after swallowing enough of what I swallow — for a lifetime, for less, for another day more, if I’m unlucky.
Sometime, somewhere, someone, some other life I’d like to think I’ll have, I am happy and not in a stranger’s bed yearning for home. I am in my own room, content with a weaker cup of coffee and a nonexistent prescription list. Perhaps in that other life, the midnight moon will not be such a loyal lover.
Sometime, somewhere, someone, some other house I could freely call home, I’ll have a family that sees this puzzle for what it is and not for the pieces that it cannot fit. In that house I am free to sink without drowning, or make light without burning. In that home I am someone unafraid of the spaces that my bed does not occupy, or the patches in my skin where other people have touched. I am free in that house, somewhere, sometime, someone else.
The way I write down things I believe to be true, you’d think I’ve somehow touched god. In the way I smile at strangers and laugh at everything I once cried for, you’ll think me lucky. How happy he must feel to touch something and know that it will stay. And perhaps that is why prescription and illusion rhymes.
Sometime, somewhere, someone, some other figure inside the bathroom mirror, I’ll have enough reasons to unswallow an overdose. I’ll be outside and I’ll be walking, smiling at strangers without the need for an anti-depressant’s lightning. And perhaps the sun will be a better lover then.
Right now, right here, I and the figure inside the bathroom mirror stares at each other and tries to see who can blink the most in a second. Blink, they never loved me. Blink, I wish they did. Blink, tomorrow they will. Blink. Blink. Close.
