heroin dreams

by Megan French

I laugh carelessly,
attempting to slow anguished neurons that pulse at my throat.
They force a hesitation I cannot put to words as
I watch you pick the scabbed mark that divulges private terror.
While you try, you never escape into numbness,
she dances too close to your eyes.

There are days I see her,
taut fingers grip at the back of your scalp.
Yet, she never pulls you towards her,
as you yearn for, even now.

Your preoccupied eyes meet mine for a second where
recognition is terrifying and
I feel your hand on me, though not gently.
An attempt to resist my question.
When did your punishment become about yourself,
no longer an effort to purge her from your clouded mind?

Your gaze returns to your arm.
As the crust loosens,
I am distracted by the blood that
you allow to stain the edge of your bright white T.
And though you let the red run, it only frustrates you for
when the vacancy you rely on begins to dissipate,
the nightmares always re-appear.

You hesitate, aware of my fear for the first time.
The zombies masked in clown suits make existing less unbearable, but
I wish they were not here today.
They do not ask, you say, even as
your look begins to seek.
Wanting, afraid.
Almost at once, they bring us back to feigned existence with laughter
too abrupt for the stillness we neared.

You are relieved, quieted by their interruption.
The pixies swallowed like the little white pills you keep loose in your pocket.
I too, find myself reassured, though it’s not what I want.

I will not ask, I say, as I let your hand steady my lie.
You smile.
Then respond to the circus above our heads.
While I am not yet ready to leave, I know you already have.
Nevertheless, more and more
I wonder if our loneliness was our same


Stain