665 - second person blows

acid rising
it's not drugs but you need those too, trust me, still using tin foil from a junkie as the pounds fall off and something's dripping in the back of your swollen throat, the coke nose a testament to some escape you can't afford and the gradual thinning of blood.
IN WINTER you wrote too many poems about love, last time, with that same title before knowing it, those two line couplets you poured sloshy teenage angst into and wrote on bathroom walls and carved into the bottoms of desks like someone was asking for it, looking for it. so much faith, no proof.
at least it's cold but that means looking down, down at your feet, nodding off, waking up, not remembering, more missing frame headers, sugar drains out the back without noticing, shivering, less energy, nodding all the time when blood drains from your hands and feet because of beta blockers, racing back to the heart.
I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm hungry. it's ok, the acid's rising with--
the first thing when you wake up is spit. remember that? going under iv, coming back up, the first thing you do is spit. reject coming back to the cold reflexively and spit. high acid, low patience.
smoking, craving fat, destroying membranes with the worst food you can find, fat takes longer to digest even though it's more painful.
angry and poor, full of acid. coffee helps stay awake because sleeping is cheaper than eating, smoking, drinking coffee, acid rising like bile. you're tired and wired. you want to spit venom, vomit, put a vendetta on everyone. you forget.
the first thing when you wake up is spit. when you sleep you remember twenty years past being alone with a pair of scissors. cut off the clothes and cut off your fingernails and toenails. blood everywhere. they found you. you kept biting through the years and biting down through skin, scar tissue, scabs until infections, fingernails torn to red crescents tearing open skin to destroy.
the first thing is that metallic taste in the back of your mouth, like chewing on razors, you want to chew and feed upon yourself, cut up your tongue, your skin, raze tattoos, shed that and adapt.
I'm hungry, hungry, hungry.
time whites in again and splits up before moving smoothly. nodding out and going under. going under. just hold your breath and go under. second-person reprise, white-knuckled suspension waiting for the grace of suicide weather. hungry.
there must be some mistake, he says bent. I already, already paid.