Hypodermia

It’s been 25 years since I stuck a needle in my arm.

I’m thankful for that.

Believe me.

But I was just at my doctors

For a physical

And they drew blood...

I was fascinated.

It happens every time

That I am there

Under scrutiny

And I don’t say anything

To any of the nurses.

They have no idea that I’m turned on.

That’s my addiction.

I’m romancing the needle.

I’m sexxxing it up.

I am immediately shot back

To when I was getting high

When I torqued my veins

And stuck that sharpie in.

And I’m now waiting for that rush...

It doesn’t come.

I’m sitting on the medical table

Watching the nurse

Fill several vials

Full of my blood

And I’m just thinking

How good it would feel

To be getting loaded right now.

25 years later

And I’m still having these thoughts.

That’s the power of addiction.

When she is done

She put’s a gauze and a bandaid

On the tiny hole

And tells me to hold it up for a moment.

I never did that.

I’d just relax and blood would trickle.

Later when I see the bruise

That this tiny prick has caused

I have to wonder

How I lived with evidence

Up and down my arms

For so long.

The track marks on my junkie skin

Are long gone

And ironically

The old bastard is in remarkably

Excellent health.

But the track marks in my junkie mind

Are still there

A quarter of a century later.

Not that I’m going to get high

But I sit here

On top of a medical table

In my doctor’s office

Thinking about

This needle

And how sexy

It is.

That’s a bit fucked up

My friends.