The Waiting by Abigale Louise LeCavalier

The pain rips through me,
my arms,
my chest,
my head.

It’s the addiction
I’m wallowing in.

Tasting rotted fruit
while the radio screams
that new song by
Silversun Pickups.

And I wonder how the hell
I’m going to make another night.

Ringing my hands,
soaking my face
in champagne tinted
luke-warm rosewater.

Yet I can hardly
breath,
and the pusher
has a hand
past my lungs.

Looking for the piece of me lost
in a hole too large to fill;
only numbed by poppies
and a stolen prescription pad.

It’s my loss after all;
trading fresh air
for the bottle and the pill.

Putting aside life,
while I sit on the moon.

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