That Junky 6th Sense

It’s a phenomenon I experience a few times a week. I’m not sure if it started before or after I started using—now almost a decade ago. An immediate realization that the person in front of my face is a mirror. Their addiction pulsing a silent signal that I instantly receive.

Whenever it’s confirmed,  a bit of joy courses through me. I’ve found one of my own. Sometimes there’s a bit of loathing as well. A mirror image of my own self loathing?

I rest on my arms, palms on the counter. Old scar on my inner arm—a mess of twisted flesh the color of buttermilk—a secret badge of honor. Only for them to see.

The fire trucks are wailing outside the window. Flying down Manor to a distant emergency. Their lights flicker on the blinds before stopping, screams growing quiet in the distance.

I feel tired. Not high. Just drained. I’m dissapointed in my nightly dose. It isn’t strong enough. I hold my cravings inside. Lurking at the back of my skull. Hoping to hold them at bay until tomorrow.

I picture the junkies across America. All of us snuggled up warm under the covers. Cradling track marks and secret desires for more more more. It is comforting and disgusting all at once.

But that’s life.

Until next time,

Sarah