DRUGS Poem: SICK, by Dianne C. Braley

Two hours —
but I’d drive anywhere
to get my fix.

There, on the corner
beneath a grimy street sign —
there it is.

And I pull over
for the drug deal,
the transaction I return to
over and over again.
Because I do.
Because I’m sick.

Not a needle in my vein,
but a magnet to my blood.

You blink, seeing me.
You swagger, being you.
It’s you with the tracks.
It’s you, strung out — again.
And I’m here,
our baby in tow —
the creation of love,
the creation of lies —
picking up you
because you never can.

The heat hisses off the sidewalk
when you get in,
and it ignites the space between us.
It always fucking does.

That’s why I return.
And return.
And return.

I burn.
And I hate myself for it —
the kiss,

the pull,
the fucking draw
that shouldn’t be.

You love venom.
And I love you
because I never knew
when I fell —
but didn’t I?
With red flags on fire.

But red flags feel safe.
I’ve been blanketed in them
since a girl.

My father.
Now you.

I am home in hell.

You speak without words.
Empty promises.
You don’t have to.

I’m still here —
love sick,
strung out
on fucking you.