A MILLION LITTLE PIECES

My need to get fucked up has grown exponentially. It has grown to the point that it is no longer a thought and it has grown to the point that I don't have any thoughts. There is just a base instinct. Get something. Fill me. Get something. Fill me.

I don't feel anything anymore or what I do feel is so powerful that my mind and my body are incapable of allowing it to register.

Your body has suffered from a pattern of such profound and prolonged abuse that it will not hold up anymore.

His God has become his drug and he is high, high as a Motherfucking kite, and he rants and raves, paces back and forth, God this and God that, blah blah blah. If I was closer to him or if I could get at him, I would punch him in the mouth just to make him shut the fuck up.

I am fucked up beyond comprehension. I am comfortable for the first time in days.

I follow my usual routine. Crawl to the Bathroom. Vomit. Lie on the floor. Vomit. Lie on the floor. Vomit. Lie on the floor. Some of the vomit gets stuck in my new teeth and it hurts cleaning it out. After the cleaning, I vomit again and I clean again and I crawl back to bed.

There is white. Everywhere there is white. There is agony. It is agony that is unfathomable.

There is white. Everywhere there is white. There is agony.

I sit down in the chair and I try to make myself comfortable but it's not possible. Torture devices are not made to be comfortable.

It looks like a medieval torture device. I know it is for me.