laying on my bed with the erratic sounds of guerilla toss flooding over me
withdrawal felt like coming up on acid at first, not so bad
a tingling in my hands and mouth
a tensing of my body
that taste in my mouth and the feeling creeping up my throat
a slow heat behind my face
textures grew sharp and grimy in my taut vision
(i could see the handprints on the wall, white on white slicked in oil and matte with grime)
but that feeling came with it, grown fundamental as hunger or thirst
those first days were strange
in a way, that helped them pass
later days grew dull and slow a while
punctuated by a memorable oddity here or there
like the day i felt my brain curling in my skull, a strange octopus twitching
crying out silently for the chemical bath it had grown to need
days are brighter now
still the feeling is tangled up in the rhythm of my body
places it has no right to be.
when you do something all the time, your brain comes to believe it (or its lack) is the cause of every little sensation
thats how i like to make sense of it, anyways.
and when you stop?