OD'd on his suboxone and not on purpose, opened in the kitchen dark a bottle
I thought was my own trifling med and took his drug instead, stop signs he called them,
helps you stop without insane withdrawal, but tells me now he just used it to deepen
his high, heighten his depths, he didn't care what he took or did or what combo
he imbibed, just ate up anything to make it better. Deader. I had no clue what I'd done
until later in bed my Self began to break into parts of equal measure like frames of film
unspliced and floating away from each other, alone, couldn't figure out how to use
the phone to call for help or to swallow my own spit, three days I sat up on the sofa
for fear of disremembering to breathe if I slept, him gone, out of his mind on dope
he tells me now, too hot for long sleeves and his arms covered in tracks so he
wouldn't come home for fear I'd see. On the third day, I returned to myself though
never all the way for I had glimpsed the oblivion he sought hourly for years, saw
I'd authored him in my bones, he was my allegory, analogy, corollary, mirror, I forged
his suffering, his nail, his needle, his thrill. Of course I swallowed the stupid pill.
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