six weeks post-withdrawal

Eating less and throwing up more, you've lost weight? You look great! Thank you, thank you. I am made of coal, layers of dead things condensed into fuel that is only kindling, only kindling, but thank you, I think the black looks good on me too.
Waking up during the night crying, your skin is so clear! Thank you, I scrub with salt every morning, burnish with bar soap and dollar store body lotion. The minerals feel at home with me, become part of my sedimentary complexion, the grit that sloughs off of me when I sweat for the cum of my lover.
Social aversion tickling the edge of agoraphobia, why aren't you coming out tonight? So that when I do go out, I am standing in a crowd of people daydreaming about my attic, with the windows that won't open and the dust begetting dust begetting dust, and how easy it would be to dismantle myself cell by cell into that same dust, to let my blood and spit and bile evaporate and crack apart bits of my own bones and grind my teeth enough that the next owner can only wonder at the amount of dust in the attic in the house that they buy.
Smoking so much that the cough has come back, isn't it a lovely night? Just look at the moon. The moon and Mercury and Mars, triumvirate of my body, two elbows and a rib cage beating. The pretentiousness of war, who am I fighting? What is there to say to myself other than that I am yellow cowardly, yellow foolish, yellow bruise-just-healed. Red inside of my eyelids, red where I bit my nails down too far, red between the teeth I can't bring myself to care for, great riptide that swamps me in loathing and fear. The moon and Mercury and Mars, and I a compass between them, retching up the beauty and the bracing of their weight.