Graduation Day

Maybe in your world, to graduate meant that you would obtain a degree, this means you succeeded at mastering something.
Maybe in my cosmic twist, graduating looked something like this;

9 years old and drunk on tequila we stole, watching the world spin…
Waking up in in a hospital, a mix of faces, both stern & concerned. Later, my mom said she would not nurse us back to health, if we were thirsty, we had to get our own glass of water, take them beats hard, take them spirits heavy.

11 years old, 2 joints of marijuana, they left out on the table.
I left for school and smoked them both on my way there.
Later my mom defended me to the death when the principal told her I was high. The obvious signs were there, the missing drugs, the red eyes, the way I suddenly became so social when I was always the loner in class, the outsider, the one they spoke of in hushed tones.

That feeling of alone which cut like glass through my soul.
Later I would do lines on the strip..We called it the strip,                                                                   it was seedy, dark and defeated.
I succeeded in learning the ways of being enslaved to the white crystal,                                       the powdered kick, the fast morning hit….                                                                                               my own fists against my own unrecognizable face,                                                                          the hatred which wanted me to be wasted.

I tasted the seas of strangers as they entered me, incapable of erasing my need.
Suns were enemies which burned our morning faces.
We danced like we meant it, but then we’d lose balance, forget who we were holding, watching the shape-shift of lovers enclose us, eyes flickering in multicolored brilliance, only to fade to silence and blank stares, or inexplicable rage.

They could not love you, when you were a stranger, but you always felt the hero was somewhere out there on the next big trip, you kept taking it, and he never came, or he always came, but he never arrived, maybe he was too high, somewhere in an alley on Hastings, maybe he was wasting away, the black tar laughter in your DNA, waiting for that proud day you graduated.

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Filed under Addiction, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

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