The things that used to complete me now terrify me. Products of bliss are now things of nightmares. A flower, a flame, an electric fan. Images behind my eyes are a scattered sea of paranoia. My skin itches until I scratch it, and then I cannot stop. I look down, and my neck is red and raw.
I lower the doses of the things I need, up the load of the ones I want. A temporary distraction, an increasing frenzy of an imaginary psychosis.
Water gets replaced by an eternal thirst. Indie rock replaced by silent screams. Dark circles cloud around my eyes, my jaw cracks, my ears ring. These are all I hear.
Each of my bones snap, one by one. Like a cymbal, thunder crashing all around me -- crack, crack, crack. I twist, contort, writh in pain and no one helps. No one knows. The image in the mirror is strange and sad, I feel sick at the sight of the monster I have become.
But it wasn't always like this. My fever cooled, my eyes relaxed.. I was calm. The lights were shining bright down upon me, and I was in the dark. I lay naked among strangers, riddled with imperfections, and still I was not phased. I was so comfortable in my own skin. I was euphoric and ecstatic, nothing brought me down.
I soaked sugar cubes in something sweet, bought a one-way ticket to a foreign place. Every trip was different, but always smooth as silk.
Like a moth to the flame, the city lights drew me closer and closer. Radiohead played 11 hours on repeat, and we all drove south from there.

Nicotine nights served insomnia well, but now sleep is all that saves me from myself.


It's harder than a teenage erection to find peace in the middle of my nights. So many shitty thoughts rushing through my mind.