Junkies love company, they’re just like misery that way. It’s no wonder we used to make sure to buy two handles for the weekend. How many rainy days did I lose to laying in your bed while you smoked off aluminum foil? I feel like I didn’t even exist, then. In your bedroom like a secret neither one of us could keep, like our sobriety. Sitting on wet stairs in socks and sweaters, burning through money and trust and glass bottles lined up on the hand rails. Calling dealers at 3 am to show how much I didn’t love anyone at all. What better way to show I was new than to be 14 and intrinsically bind my veins to the bottle again, the way it’s always felt real and the only way my alien emotions and thought processes have ever even come close to making sense. Not glamourized like the television screen addicts, but the me and you with bloody noses pressed to mirrors and the games we used to play. We called it domestic violence, like making light of it made us better from the bitter reality we had both come to face with it. We laughed as fists met faces and we spit blood into each others mouths and onto your ethanol soaked carpet. It was like living in my own self agrandized and organized filth and hopelessness. Do you know how good it feels, deep down in the very depths of my Martian soul and spirit, to completely give up on yourself? And takeing it even a step further, to actively, methodically and recklessly engage in your own self destruction? It is the most euphoric I have ever felt. The most at home I’ve ever come to be. No mountain range or shoreline or snow bank or boys bedroom has ever come close. To the purity and heaven sent feeling of killing your own brain cells with every gulp of litera poison. I found a way to exist on this planet only to find out it made everyone around me see me for the alien creature I really am. That’s the only reason I hid away in your shitty moldy drug house. Because when you were blitzed and I was blitzed, we were both speaking the same alien language. And it made sense.