Poetry · Short Stories

The Junkie Wept

As he awoke on the cold cement street of ice and snow. He could feel his body cramp with junk sickness as he went in search of a phone. He called up his dealer, he was in need of a fix but his dealer was out, and his stomach felt sick. And and as he sat for a rest the junkie wept. He felt for a pocket he had known would be empty, and his veins were burning so he killed for a fifty.

And as he took a deep breath the junkie wept. He then approached a dealer who sold him a gram but the seller was crooked and the junk felt bad, It past through his blood with fiendish slowness, he knew that he was near death but he had always known this. He was no longer searching for a temporary solution but the eternal fix, his head felt numb and his tongue felt thick, and as his body lost all feeling. He reached out for the cruel dealers hands as he laid down and slept, and for the very last time the junkie wept.

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