Drugs or Death?

I think I was eleven. No, I was ten, but it was eleven weeks before my eleventh birthday. 

Imagine this for a second-

At ten years old you are given a choice, shoot yourself up with drugs or die.


No, this isn't about being a drug addict or getting sucked down into the world of addiction.

(That's a story for another time)

This was about getting diagnosed with a chronic illness, and practically being handed a death sentence on a plate.


I can quite easily say there's something about that, that scares the childhood right out of you.

No more smiles and rainbows. This was cold, calculating science, and hoping you wouldn't die.

I'm not going to draw this out into an angsty poem about the internal conflict I was facing.

This is merely me realizing the world is an awful place.

This poem is about: 


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