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  • Writer's pictureCourtney Maguire


Photo by Paul Bulai on Unsplash

Maybe it’s the flicker of that little flame.

My glazed eyes can’t seem pull themselves away as it brushes against the bottom of the spoon, melting the junk inside it and turning it black. I tell myself it’s the last time. I’ve told myself that before, but I always end up back here, staring into the fire as it dances atop a gold Zippo.

Itching and anxious, I pull the plunger of a syringe with my teeth, drawing up that devilish liquid. A belt around my thin, tattooed arm, just above the symbol Pi. A number without end. And that’s how I feel as the drug enters my veins. Infinite.

Maybe it’s the burning in my heart.

Anger, lust, despair all rolled into one. Like everything inside me is on fire. I just want it to stop. So I use a small flame to put out a bigger one. Too cowardly to use a razor. Killing myself slowly with a silver spoon.

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