The Thing That Scares Me Most Is My Most Replayed Memory

I'm not into the drug scene. I'm allergic to a few drugs. 

Im not into being a slut. I was once treated as a sex object. 

Im not into the latest thing. I was once so deeply involved so I could breathe. 

Im not into being sane. My sanity, like my childhood, was ripped from me when I was 6. 

THC. Common enough. It is a volatile substance that steals my insides and my ability to stay awake. It poisons me, as though it has razors, to steal my life from me. 

Cocaine. Satans baby powder. It burns my nostrils as if there was a fire in my nasal cavity. Then rips me from my fears and subjects me to a burning itch, and takes my stomach for a street.

Meth. A dreary, schizophrenic drug. For nothing is more energizing and paranoid. Even the steadiest of warriors wouldn't be able to fight it. The high wasn't my style. 

Heroin. By far my favorite. Though the itchy spots came, as did the vomit. This wasn't a high, it was a low. It made everything look small from my magical cloud. No one but me. 

Of course, like every story about drugs, there is the dealer. 

He was tall. Handsome. Smart. Evil. A mirror image of his druggie parents. 

He was barely even 10. But he taught me better about life then any senior could. 

The vagina. An object of which is the only thing that gets a girl far. At least, in the druggie world. 

My attire. Slutty is gorgeous and gorgeous is too plain.

Me? I'm just a woman. I must do whatever the male says.

He made me do things for him. His gangs genitals were in my mouth when he wanted. I was to obey him or he'd kill me and my loved ones. 

He would touch me, so highly inappropriately. 

If I spoke about it, I was finished. As was my loved ones.

He held my neck as I snorted. He held me down as he shot me up. He walked me in with his hand clenched on the back of my neck.

The family I told, turned their backs on the idea of it. It's all made up. 

The friends I've told, wish to murder him. 

He is the thing that keeps me up at night. He is why I'm scared of sex. He is why I'm not sane. He is the thing that I fear most. 

The memory is there. And so is he. He will always be there. 

The Thing That Scares Me Most Is My Most Replayed Memory. 

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741