I spent my 24th birthday crying, coked-out on someone else's garden stones in their backyard near the fence. There is a death rattle in the background sounds of every day, calling for me, reminding me of its presence on my shoulder while it eats away with jagged teeth at my ability to write, create, be inspired, dropping little crumbs all over me.
All the metaphors and flowery imagery in the world at my disposal and I feel completely and utterly stupid using any of them to try and make the simple statement that cocaine is ruining my life and destroying my brain and stealing from me and it's no one's fault but my own. All I can do most days is cry when I think about it, but then there I am the next time, too drunk, short $200 (on a good day), teeth grinding, jaw clenched, eyes darting back and forth between the flat surface and the baggie, mouth too dry to swallow properly.
It used to make me feel invincible and special when I started three, almost four years ago. Now I feel like a slave, a destructive demon.
When I get high, I chain-smoke two packs of Newport 100s like a complete fucking asshole. Each line takes away another piece, each comedown has me internally screaming under what feels like ten feet of concrete under a burning building.
At midnight on November 5th, my birthday, I chose to do that. That's how I found myself in someone's backyard, sitting curled up with my arms hugging my knees at 11:30 a.m. or so, higher than a kite, alone, waiting for my fiancé to come back outside, attempting to sing "Happy Birthday" to myself in an absurdly cracked voice--a voice that used to be beautiful--with tears streaming down my face.
I hate the girl that created this in me.