Sixth Time's a Charm.

I'm pretty sure this week makes six.


Convincing myself that this will be the last time, I ravenously indulge.
And whatthehell. If I'm gonna give it up for good, I might as well make tonight tomorrow's glorious memory.


The irony of it all is that that's why I keep coming back:
I make sure my "Last Time" 's are so fulfilling, so ... dangerously sweet, that before I know it, I'm planning for the next one.


And could you really blame me?
The shame, the impulse, the curiousity... they thrust their thick and throbbing fingers (clench-release-clench-release) around my puny little achy heart and I c a v e...
Giving in is the only way to make the clenching stop, it seems.
I don't stand a chance from the beginning.


And oh the tense-akwardness that chokes the air once it's over.
... just as the script for this routine instructs, I widen the front door to greet my worthless Conscience, laying there helpless, cheeks stained with ashy tear-trails.
And, as I've done so many times before, I scoop brown arms around her skinny frame, craddle her close to my dewy breasts, and carry her towards the sink to rinse off ... she lets me watch her scrub-scrub-rinse-scrub-scrub routine, until she 's convinced she's clean again.
My eyes too heavy and week to meet hers, I promise "never to do it again" and reassure her, for the sixth time, that this was "definitely definitely the last time."


The last few drops of water rinse away the mud between her toes as she feigns a smile & nods okay...


And we both know she'll be greeted on the doormat again .
Same time next week.

Dope.

Here he comes.

All .....smiley.

And smooth,

and
.........earnest.

All soft-palmed

and deep-voiced

and smell-good.

Full of promise and rawness

and enough "I love you's" to force your heart to its knees, begging for mercy-

dripping snot and juicy salt-tears.

A man who believes in soulmates.

And as if that's not enough to wet your pretty little eyes...

he said that he's convinced I'm his.

The only thing we don't see eye-to-eye on is the whole weed thing.

To him, it's recreation.

And as an artist, it's to be expected, I suppose.

But me?

Ha.

I'm a walking PSA:

Against anything that takes you out of the "right state of mind."

At least, I was.

Because between his sticky-honey kisses, paralyzing eyes (in which Ifind myself drowning in a naked, sweaty slumber... all open-legged and unafraid) and his cripplingly-contagious jolt of a laugh...

I smoke, inhale and breath him in every day.

And if his high is anything like mine,

then consider me a new advocate of the dopest drug known to man.