Sister Morphine

Little by little I say goodbye, though without question at times, in my eagerness to be rid of her, too much at once. It’s in these times I feel the old haunting, the way her absence crawls under my skin, makes me twitch involuntarily, my insides revolting against what I must do. It is only with reluctance that I bring her back, but only just enough – to sleep, to not feel like there are thousands of worms under my skin, to not feel the way I swore to myself I never would again so many years ago.

I don’t even know how long she’s been a part of me this time – three years, four, five… it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s long past time to rid myself of the morphine that has been coursing through my blood for so long that it has taken nearly everything away – my love of writing, my passion, my desire for life – so very much, and left me with an empty shell that finds it far too difficult to see the beauty in this world as I once did.

Of course, it’s going to be more difficult this time, as all I need to do is say “ouch” and a new prescription is filled within a few hours, free of charge.


But I don’t want to live this life as a dead man anymore.

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