Cynthia Needs Help

I'm a little much for everyone. I'm made of cocaine, I have heroin hair, LSD lips, powder and pills and puffs of smoke I can't identify. I'm crawling out from under the bed every day, I'm hanging half upside-down on the carpet by the tips of my claws. Part of it is the people I'm around, who keep giving me freebies and letting me stay just a little later, part of it, and, the part I'm most ashamed of, is my heart. I want this life. I've been dragged around by someone my whole life and I just want to rest and hibernate in my own world. Nothing competes with the drugs in my veins.

Today hangs heavy with the loss of my dear friend Cassidy. Today hangs heavy with the coke I snorted in the bathroom at work, the little white lines disappearing through the rolled up ten dollar bill. Today, I am a doormat and a dustbin. 

The only love I haven't screwed up is three-hundred miles away from me, and he's ignoring all of the bad things I've done. He shouldn't, he should be hanging onto them and flashing them in my face every chance he gets, and I half expect it anyway. He made the deadly mistake of dancing in my storm.

What I find most disappointing is that I don't want to change. I want to spend the rest of my life doing exactly what I'm doing right now. I don't want to have to hit another rock bottom but it seems like the only thing that will get me to step out of the shadows again. I'm just not sure how much my heart can handle, one false move and it's into the abyss for me, regardless of who cares and who doesn't. I can't find it in my heart to care. I can't find any motivation to clean my room, and the littered pieces of clothing smell like death every time I walk in the doorway. Plastic bottles and old soda cans line the windowsill like I've set them up for the world to see. Decorations for a dying girl, dying by her own hand, slowly, slowly.