Gold *****

I am the functional drug addict, I am myth, a lie, something to shield your eye from the fact that you are a drain on your own life, an addiction not just to drugs, but to strain, to the addiction of

MUST

MAINTAIN MAINTAIN MAINTAIN

Hampster wheel of run away

AWAY AWAY A WAY

To seperate self from flames burned on spoons on the street, candles lit for people still sick and suffering, who are dead before you have a chance to meet them….

I am gold, I am pretty, I am neat, I am clean.

Whatever do you mean, that is mean… I am doing just fine, I am golden, baby. I am maintaining mine, you may need help but I do not… I am okay with burning spoons, and keeping all my bowls hot as fire

Fire fire fire

Burn yourself, I am okay with hiding bottles on the shelf.

I am okay okay okay

Please go away.

I did and she stayed there, sitting probably in the same chair, forever and ever, in the life of fog get her.

Fog Get Her

Forget her.

She tells me I am an alcoholic, drug addict, and spits on me, when I ask her for some change, I tell her that’s strange, because she is high on the same drug, and she look in the ****ing mirror if she wants to insult anyone. I pretend it doesn’t bother me, but it does, enough that I am writing about it right now, and still thinking about it months later.

I was doing speed with this girl a week before asking for the change, and asked her for the change because I thought she would sympathize being a drug addict her self.

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Daily writing prompt

What’s something most people don’t understand?

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I am sitting on a street corner, watching everyone walk by, making eye contact with people with nice clothes on, for just a second and then looking away, this being a better technique than most people’s “Can you spare any change?”……….

YOU SOUND LIKE AN ***HOLE..

Yeah..

They don’t understand we are just addicts who do not want to screw anyone over, we have to because we are slaves to our addictions, most of us feel bad about it. It perpetuates the addictions of most of us… We use and drink to be able to sleep and think because we are addicts and then we end up, or some of us do anyway, out of the street, having to panhandle, steal, lie, and some of us gain some sort of semblance of pride that comes from being good at it. I am good with words, I liked doing what I did not because I liked being a liar but because I like playing with words.

There are hundreds like me, thousands, who failed and get some sort of semblance of control from panhandling vocally, or writing clever signs, or sitting outside with a sign for 12 hours and making 200 dollars a day.

I am, by the way, an ***hole, but I am trying to change now.

I have parents, who love me, who I abandoned to go across the country doing drugs with my ex who then tried to do things to me that are unspeakable, and are being told in allegory because, **** he tried to do things that are so **** that I dare not reveal that much about him. I have never hurt anyone just myself and speak of murder and crime as a literally and therapy tool used in allegorical repressed rage, because I hate the situation on the streets of this country and wish I had done something instead of being out there getting high with people who died, or hurt people. I have never killed anyone, hurt anyone, other than myself. I just have repressed rage at me so I made myself out to be a recovering monster, because I am, but not a violent one, not to any one else, just my own soul.

This is the reason for my anonymity.

I do not want to cause danger anymore to my family who are not Damien’s but a very normal one, who did not deserve a drug addict/alcoholic who should just have admitted they were non-binary Damien/Amanda/gender queer/schizophrenic drug addict/alcoholic the whole time, then maybe I could have a last name on this site.

Damien/Amanda.

I slept over Dianne’s. She is happy about Rei’s recent…. disappearance. She has not said this out loud, but I can tell that she is. I can see it in her eyes when she thinks she is alone. I like to watch people. Dianne has a daughter named Lyra. I do not know who Lyra’s father is. Lyra is 16. I have not met her. I do not think I will meet her. I think she lives with her father. I said I didn’t know who Lyra’s father was, that is a lie. I haven’t met him, I just remembered Dianne told me his name was William, she calls him Will. He used to work for the company she works at. She will not tell me the name of the company, because she doesn’t want me to have anything to do with her work life.

I appreciate the separation of our lives. I feel like I can finally think clearly. I still have Rei’s computer. I am thinking about keeping it. I do not want to buy my own because I do not like stores. I am staying in this abandoned warehouse near Dianne’s when I am not at Dianne’s, which is whenever she doesn’t call on me.

I like being alone, sometimes. I do not know what the factory made. I am not well-versed on the history of factories. It’s peaceful there.

I see you in color, as you lay blue on blue floor, you wanted more than what life had in store, so you took from my hand a plan to take more time with items of mine, of infernal design. You purchased sweet lies, from peddlers of demise. They don’t hear your cries poor baby, poor dear. They can’t hear your fear.

You exist forever on a train, screaming in pain.

You are an extension of life, unnatural in nature, beautiful creature, the trains main feature, playing forever to the eyes of the beasts here. The train’s natural music plays while you’re losing pints of your blood, honey..so red and so runny. It’s even on your money. I take it to my nose and smell it……..

So glad you bought what I was selling.

I’m yours, sweet darling, I’m sure it was me, who wanted more. You, we adore.