Im feeling like a fresh wound today. Words like mercy and forgiveness are stinging me like salt. The tears well up inside my chest, i can feel the pressure. Last night I held my precious baby girl in my arms. I looked at her smiling, her chubby sweet cheeks. She was born in my favorite season, Autumn; a crisp November day this year. But then suddenly I felt memories rush forth like a flood. A few years ago this wound was ripped open when I learned of his death.
John. A decade my senior, a fast intense and dangerous love. I met him one night with Jen. The three of us, loud and hysterical on the train to New York City. We ran through the streets as fast as possible before the winter wind could freeze us to the bone. We were all dressed in skimpy black leather and vinyl.
The first night was mostly between Jen and me. We kissed and danced and walked bleary-eyed through the smoked filled club. We laughed with strange men who wanted to take us home.
The sun rose and the three of us were coming down. We stumbled through Penn station, Jen and I laughing at our haggard faces in the bathroom mirrors.
Ecstasy was constantly bursting pleasure through our brains. We touched each other in bed, talked about how we never felt such love. Was it love? Was it the drugs? Both?
Then, things started to change. John and I went deeper. He told me he was addicted to pain killers, lost his job, lost his family. I remember saying to him, “man, if you loved oxy you will love heroin. And if you love heroin, you will love shooting up.”
And then time gets fuzy, nothing makes sense. I remember it being new years eve, Jen and I were together. A phone call was made, hushed voices, I snuck out her window into his truck.
Jen and I fought. I lied to him, swore we never slept together. He said he would leave me if I did.
I remember kneeling in front of him, sticking a needle in his vein (this wont hurt..ready..one two three..ahhhh) . I remember pupils dilating and long dark nights. I remember him loving crack from the first hit. I convinced to him to try it, I wont forgive myself.
I laid in his bed. Nodded out at his family’s table. His parents looked at me with suspicion and fear.
Then, we’re in a big white van, we laughed calling it our home. But it wasnt really funny.
We rode from Newark and back a million times. I shoved a thousand dollars worth of heroin and crack in my bra, running away from angry dealers.
I didnt care. We didnt care.
The fighting started. Then the paranoia. I remember him putting crack inside a bag and hiding it inside the toilet. The cops are coming, the cops are coming.
We sat for hours, all night long, picking eachother’s faces and back. When I went to rehab I had sores all over my face from the constant picking.
We only bathed once, together in the motel bathroom. The bathwater was warm, but he was distant, so far away from me. Things werent the same anymore.
Another run to the dealer. A knife is held to my throat. I swear he’s not a cop, they said my live depended on it. They dont trust white guys.
He calls the bank, just one more loan. He is reaching 30,000 dollars in debt, and its only been three weeks.
I cant stop puking from the drugs. I carry plastic bags with me everywhere, adjusting to the sickness I feel. I cant eat, my pants are falling off my juted hips. I’m started to get used to never eating and always throwing up.
I hand him the crack stem on our way back from Newark. He takes a hit while we drive down the highway, we cant wait.
I think Im dying, actually I am. I dial 911 but never press the button. Later John told me that I was numb, I couldnt move my arms, my heart was beating through my chest.
I remember taking bear aspirin, “my anti-heart attack drug” I joked. Later I find out, it may have actually saved my life.
He cant leave me. He cant just die. Life was so close to the edge, we almost died together. You cant leave me. Dont die, please dont go.
The money was running low. We had almost nothing left. I couldnt take it, neither could he. We laid in bed, trying to detox from the 20 bags of dope we shot into our veins every day. But we couldnt do it, so we hopped in the van and drove to Newark in a heavy silence.
When we get there, Im too sick to walk into the projects. John asks our dealer if he will come to the car “are your legs broken?” he asks. This was John’s first run without me.
He comes back in. We spend a night in our van outside a hotel in their parking lot. There are vials everywhere. This is a strong one, we double up the hits and nearly pass out.
We cant stop. I cant stop.
I find myself wishing I would get arrested. Please, save me from myself. I cant it alone.
Finally the money runs out, our fights are more intense and heart-breaking. I cant even sip water anymore without thowing up. Im very sick, so very sick.
I call my Mother. I think its night but its actually morning. She knows it bad, really bad. She wants to save me but I wont let her. I hang up.
Later on I end up in rehab, John ends up in jail.
The last time I ever saw him he came to pick me up, I was fresh out of detox and feeling like I might just beat this thing. He was so sick. He lost weight, he didnt look like the John I met all those months ago. Back when it was the three of us. Back when we laid in bed and tried to make a polyamous relationship work. Back when we thought we were in control.
I look at him and I remember how it all started. How we thought it was fun. How we laid in bed listening to VAST take us away with her music. We swore we would only use together, but then we were never apart. Then we swore we would only use twice a week, but the days ran into each other.
Then he got a phone call, I hear a female voice on the line. He hangs us and tells me it was a man when i question him. I say, “really? sure sounded like a woman to me.” He drops me off at home.
Later on, about a week later. I am at home, lost in big house that I shared with my mom and step-father. I feel like I want to kill myself. I feel like I can never escape, like Im gonna die this way and nothing can stop it.
So I call him up. He is supposed to come over and get me high after picking it up in Newark. But he doesnt show up. I wait and wait. My heart is pounding, Im anxious and I want to get high.
He got arrested. He goes away for over a year, part of it in rehab. And I move away, I run away. I think moving to the desert across the country will help but it doesnt.
One day I ask him for forgiveness, he says he doesnt blame me.
And then I get a text message from Jen that breaks open a wound that wont close.
John is dead. They found his body on a sidewalk in Camden.
Thy Word is a Lamp unto my Feet 