DRUGS Poem: Ceres, by R. Perrin

I feel like shit. I’ve been lying on my couch bingeing TV shows, movies, watching cat, capybara and owl videos on Instagram. I read. I make dinner. I planted cucumber seeds in little pots on the window sill and now they’re strong seedlings, turning their faces to the sun.

I have my writing group tonight. I haven’t written anything. I have nothing to share. I just want to drink. I plan on buying a cocktail in a can and bringing it with me. I envision the alcohol making me happy. It won’t.

Every Saturday S gets to the clinic too late to get his methadone. He calls. Wants money and lies about what he needs it for. I Zelle it. He buys heroin. Comes home. Says he’s been to the clinic, took his dose and has his bottle for tomorrow, Sunday. He doesn’t. He didn’t.

It’s bright outside in the daylight. Ground Hog Day. S retreats into his bedroom to burrow under the covers. Even though it’s Spring it’s going to be a long winter. May 17th, May 31st, June 7th, June 14th….every fucking Saturday.

I want some laughter, some lightness, some relief. I’m fine. Really. But a part of me is dead. Dead atop the rage, the pure blind rage, the dying light, the grief. Youth, squandered. Age, imminent. Here.

And all the days I didn’t drag you out and fling away the needles and envelopes and carry you into the waiting arms of the EMT’s and follow their screaming sirens and you. Who cared if it was against your will? Who was I to take your will into consideration when it was my job, my job, my job to protect you? Who takes that pain away? No one.

I swear to God, if you die with a needle in your arm I will never forgive myself. I will never stop raging against not the light but myself. My rage will be boundless, and my grief. And never again will I bring forth green life in the permanent and barren winter my life will becom