I wrote alot today.
I rode my bike to Prospect Park. The temperature outside is in the high nineties, so I decided after laying in the park for a few hours that I’d ride the subway home. I unconsciously picked a spot on the track to stand. I didn’t place myself, so that I can get off at a certain spot like I usually do. I get on the train and I notice two things. One, I’m the only white person on the train and everyone is looking at me. Two, a young woman who had her head down, arms up, and eyes closed. There was a man next to her. I immediately suspect that they are junkies and my stomach gets pangs and my throat gets a dry, thick taste. I thought to myself, “perhaps the woman is just tired from the blazing heat outside, and that’s why she looks knocked out.” I saw her open her eyes and the deadness inside of them was not that of a heat exhausted, and tired woman. I tried turning my head, because it hurt physically and mentally. I hurt and was disgusted…I was scared. I couldn’t stop looking for the details to conclude my horror. I looked at her arms, and at first I didn’t notice the deep, gashed scars she had from wrist to elbow. I looked away again. The man next to her was singing to his CD player, he spilled his water, and I looked back at them. I noticed track marks on his arm. That sold me; I knew they were what I feared most. From then on my face was pointed in the opposite direction. I held my head as strong as I could. I held my head like I was mad. I held my head like I had many times before when I was a child, angry at my junkie mother and her junkie friends. I began to think about the woman’s scars, as I was fighting the urge to look back at them. I decided that being that high was almost like being dead. You have no feeling inside, only the drug that is pumping through your veins, and through your heart. If you can’t die, being high is the next best thing. I wanted to turn to them and scream; I wanted to yell, “You junkie, you disgust me!” The next subway stop was mine. I looked down, positioning myself and my bike to exit the subway car. I was fighting their images, trying not to see them. I looked up and heard him speak, “the next stop is ours; fix yourself so the cops don’t fuck with you.” I walked out, carried my bike up the stairs and I exited the subway. I have come to the realization that my biggest fear is Junkies. I don’t know whether it is the idea of becoming one, my mother relapsing and using again, or the past images that I have engraved into my head. Perhaps it’s all three.
I guess it’s the fear inside of me that pushes the anger out. I sometimes pass other junkies on the streets. In my head I tell them, “I hope that you die soon.” I sincerely don’t know why I think those things. I would rather see those people dead than alive, because what kind of life is that; Do people really consider that alive? I would rather shoot myself in the head than exist in that world. I wouldn’t want anyone like that directly in my life again, either. I resent the regular junkies that I see on the streets, I wish they’d get out of my life. Even passing on the street is too close in my life for my personal comfort. Maybe one day junkies won’t cause me so much angst, at least I hope they won’t.
-----
It has been three days since I last talked to her. I left her house crying after bringing her two dozen roses, she rejected me/my love, my kisses, my heart. I miss her so much, and don’t understand exactly why. I don’t know whether it’s the friend that I confided in, or if it was the lover that I held close at night. I realize that the person I miss isn’t what she is now; it’s who she was before. It’s difficult to drop that perception of someone once it’s engraved into your heart. I want to go back in time when the snow covered the pavement, and I warmed up the beautiful girl’s hands that traveled from Armonk to see me, touch me, and hold me. It’s the memories that are making letting go so hard. It’s the smiles that I still see in my head; it’s the touches that I still feel when I close my eyes. I had such a good friend when she was in my life.
Everything makes me think of her.
I guess it’s the fear inside of me that pushes the anger out. I sometimes pass other junkies on the streets. In my head I tell them, “I hope that you die soon.” I sincerely don’t know why I think those things. I would rather see those people dead than alive, because what kind of life is that; Do people really consider that alive? I would rather shoot myself in the head than exist in that world. I wouldn’t want anyone like that directly in my life again, either. I resent the regular junkies that I see on the streets, I wish they’d get out of my life. Even passing on the street is too close in my life for my personal comfort. Maybe one day junkies won’t cause me so much angst, at least I hope they won’t.
-----
It has been three days since I last talked to her. I left her house crying after bringing her two dozen roses, she rejected me/my love, my kisses, my heart. I miss her so much, and don’t understand exactly why. I don’t know whether it’s the friend that I confided in, or if it was the lover that I held close at night. I realize that the person I miss isn’t what she is now; it’s who she was before. It’s difficult to drop that perception of someone once it’s engraved into your heart. I want to go back in time when the snow covered the pavement, and I warmed up the beautiful girl’s hands that traveled from Armonk to see me, touch me, and hold me. It’s the memories that are making letting go so hard. It’s the smiles that I still see in my head; it’s the touches that I still feel when I close my eyes. I had such a good friend when she was in my life.
Everything makes me think of her.