such great heights
feels good courses thru her brain and body, the poor girl, but she feels so good. so verry good for now. for being strung out, she says, is just like a life raft with a hole: has to be blown up all the time.
for her it's too bad that the highs are much more than that, but a perfect mirror reflecting her lows, lows that wait with teeth growing from energy filtered down from above.
she felt down that night. wen't to the fridge to fill her leaking craft with the alcohol in a beer; "anything must be better than this." wrong. beer must be heavier than water, at least it was that night, for it pulled the raft and all it's mold to the bottom of her stomach and made it painfully twist; "no one can live like this." with insides like a falling zeplin she stumbled outside for the cold and nicotine and all she could see in the dark was the glowing ember walking slowly into her mouth, and the cold rush of nicotine hit her like a trainwreck in the arctic and mixed in with the cold on her fingers; with shining wings it flew off with all her problems, high into the night. not for long. crying from shame, pain and heartbreak, her body twisted and fell on on the dry sticks and leaves that died so long ago; they were the lucky ones, and now they made a bed for her desperate sobs, "anything but here, please, please, anyting but here." failure burned every part of her as her longest fingers found the hazzard yellow eject lever in her throught, the black letters read "pull in emergency." so did the pills, but she pulled them all the time, shooting her out of the cockpit of what was once an airplane, out into the cold, rushing air of the night where she would float down, down on her frail parachute, and land there amoung the dead things with the smell smoke and vomit filling her hopefull soul. she went back inside when none of these things helpped her, for they were just friends of the knife that opened her skin later that night, where she layed curled shaking, rocking back and forth, knees clutched up against her chin close to the thoughts of what one as simple as a bullet would do her brain, and the wondering of what the following dark would include. "surely it must be better than this," said the tears that might have helped so very much but never came to kiss her dry and lonly cheeks. sleep stood in line just behind eternity, waiting it's turn to come and take away her pain. "anywhere but here, anything but this, please." then it was dark again.
this is her story. she is someone you may never know, created to tell the story of someone else, someone she may never know. forgive her Jesus, and if mercy does fall upon the poor and broken, then meet her on the shore with the warmest and most whole embrace she has ever known. dear Jesus, please.
yours,
joel