I’m oozing green again, which usually means something bad is about to happen. I will ignore it until the last possible second, pop another pill and pretend it’s not happening. I’m getting low too. I won’t be able to pay for a refill, can’t change things like this, better to walk away from reality than embrace the uncomforting truth of helplessness. Helpless. I hate that word, that feeling, that pinching pain of useless. That’s why I like the kung fu girls, beating down the baddies with no remorse and leaving their venus symbol stamped across some hulkish prick. I want my women strong. I want them to be vengeance in a mini skirt. I want to be them. Some people used to think I was violent. And I might be when I have the dark rage black outs, but mostly I just feel helpless and keep taking my medicine. I really love it when he sleeps next to me, but I leave too early and he lives too far. Our time is precious and I can’t think about the bad things about to happen. I want to melt into him, because I really can’t get close enough, unless he’s inside me. I wish I were part of a world where he and I could be together and happy and nothing else happened except good beautiful things. But, we all know that’s not an option and I’m wasting my cigarette break on fairy tales. I talked to my mother about love once and goddamn if she didn’t smack the idea right out of my head. Love? You’d think I asked her if Santa Claus was coming to dinner with his pals the Easter Bunny and God. I know nothing exists anymore. Especially when I hear the bombs in the morning, a little too close to our cubby hole. I told my sister when we were kids that it would all be over soon. I guess she took that the wrong way because she ran into the minefield the next day. We were picking pieces of her out of our teeth for a week. There isn’t a choice and it won’t be over, not unless you end it. And me? Well I just dig the green stuff out and see the man behind the counter for some of that high-class prescription numbness. I haven’t eaten a good meal for a month or more. Anything I can trade or sell goes to the man with the pills. I guess this is my own brand of suicide, but food is overrated and the drugs work better on an empty stomach anyway. Sometimes I dream that I’m still in bed with him and we’re planning a future, one without the poison. But mostly I just think of ways to get more stuff so I won’t have to think about him or the places he’s going and what’s happening outside my door or why I’m alone rotting to death. That’s the only thing that’s real now. Isn’t that a bitch.