My White Lady

Heroin loved me. 

The moment the needle pierced the scrubbed red skin in the crook of my elbow, I knew she was a little weary, but when I pressed down and an explosion of relief and ecstasy shoved me off of the edge of stress and into the loving arms of absolution, it was clear she had grown fond of me.

Staying in bed with her after felt like coming home, and when that glorious feeling eventually fled, my palms began itching for her. I was falling in love, hard and fast.

Life crashed and crumbled after that, sputtering to a grinding halt, but I didn't blame her once. She was there for me through it all, my beautiful white lady. During my lows; during my highs; during the roller coaster of events that at one point might have consumed me. 

Even when I ceased cleaning my arm and the syringe before slipping it into the warmth of my body because it no longer seemed as important, she loved me. Even as I slowly cut all connection with my family members because they didn't approve of her, she loved me. Especially when my teeth began to ache, like they were planning a jailbreak the next time I fell asleep with heroin in my arms, she loved me.

Sure, there were negative aspects that came with it, but I didn't care. She accepted me, she cared for me, she let me know that no matter what happened or who left, her feelings would never change.

Laying on that bed from years before, recreating the world shaking events, I stare at the crusted dirt clinging desperately to under my chipped nails. Vision closing in, breath escaping me in uneven gasps, final fleeting thoughts sweep past consciousness. 

I'm hers, and she's mine.

Isn't it true love when you're willing to die for it?