8 Mar

The first thing I saw was a syringe filled with clear liquid. And her hands and my hands both holding it. I said, you’re supposed to shoot under the breast because the fat holds the drugs so you stay high longer. She seemed impressed that I knew this. But that’s not what we did. She positioned the syringe at the base of my thumb and pressed the needle tip in. It pinched. I had sliced my thumb earlier that day on a piece of broken glass. Then she shot a syringe full into her index finger. Then again, into my index finger. Then into her middle finger. Then into mine. I knew it was meth and that I should feel speedy, which I did, but also I felt high like I had smoked pot, foggy in the head. I was anxious. It occurred to me that we were sharing the needle, and also, that the needle stayed consistently full. Both of these facts brought on more panic. She didn’t seem to get high at all. I tried to say something, but nothing came out, so I just looked at her and she smiled in a way that I knew she loved me. Like I’d never have to say anything. It was like looking in the mirror, the feeling of being accepted, her inside of me, knowing what I felt and who I was.


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