Drug money. Every single hit got my nose bloody; still he says he’s sorry with these red bottoms (that I love honey). I wish he wasn’t a fucking liar. He wishes I wasn’t a junkie. So, these loubies will always be my personal movies, forever bringing me back to the blood that he’s shed, forever bringing me back to the drug money.
If I need a new kick I know he’ll supply it and fuck it if it’s laced he knows I’ll still try it, so I take another hit. And I don’t wanna sound ungrateful, I know this drug money is the only thing keeping me alive, but still I ask him in slurred syllables.
“How many had to die for this clout that you carry Mr blood money? Promise I ain’t gon judge, promise I won’t even care cause I love you not the life… I mean I’m fucking you not the lifestyle”
Drug money. Nose still bloody. I blame it on the PTSD, while I clean it off his off white leather seats. He blames me, while he places his bruised hand on the wheel of his Rolls Royce; he only drives with one hand when we’re on the highway. I keep trying to tell him that he should wear his seatbelt but all he ever says is tomorrow ain’t promised, especially for me. I think he likes it, the thrill; I think it reminds him of being at war. I look up into the roof trying to stop the nosebleed, this roof reminds me of the night sky at the Grand Canyon. The night I spent trying to guess which star I’d be when I die, I decided I wouldn’t be a star I’d be a meteor because I’ve grown accustomed to crashing and burning. He said he’s always hated this roof but sometimes I think its because I love it, like I love him, like he hates himself, like he hates me.
Do you believe in the loss of humanity? Because right now I’m tied to his bed, his saliva’s in my face like the sativa in my blood, his hands are around my neck and I’m running out of breath but all I can think is, I’m just another junkie in love with the drug money and I love it like a love him, maybe a bit too much, because we’ve both got skeletons and they’re all catching up to us. That’s why I love when he brings me to the edge of death, I love when he shows me that maybe I still have my humanity because humans get scared and right now I’m terrified, but still I got a smile on my face cause girls like me don’t last long.
The only sounds I hear through my drug induced ears are the beat of my head against the headboard and the groans of the man I love. I stay silent while he locks his vacant gaze on me. Physically, he’s inside me but his mind is still somewhere in jail or on the battlefield so his grip gets tighter and tighter as he goes deeper and deeper. And I know what’s about to happen to me. And I don’t fight it, I don’t make a sound, I just smile.
By the time he snaps out of it the air has already left my lungs, like I left my son. So now I’m just another junkie, six feet under. And they’ll say he murdered me but don’t believe them, the real cause of death was the life of isolation he lived in a jail cell where he spent years being tortured by flashbacks of the shells full of gunpowder exploding inches away from his ears, the lifeless bodies dropping one by one in front of him, the blood money. He was a sick man who was tossed out like trash by the people he fought for and if he’s lucky enough not to get caught, he’ll just find another unlucky girl and parade her in those blood bottoms that I loved, honey.
So do you believe in the loss of humanity? And if you do, didn’t we both lose it?