kagablog

His skin is soft and oily. It’s weird, he’s malnourished for sure, but he’s oily. Sometimes I wonder if that’s just the drugs and stale greasy food coming out of his pores. He’s never hungry and if he is, he always wants fast food, French fries and fried chicken, mashed so he doesn’t have to hurt his teeth chewing. It’s not a big deal to mash up food for him. People act like it is, but it isn’t really. If he had his wisdom teeth pulled, or a root canal, or something like that, I’d have to mash his food for him for a while. I mean I know it’s not the same, but love is love, right? That’s how I feel on a good day, like it comes with the package, like it’s all part of loving him. I can do it sometimes. Sometimes I feel strong enough to, other times I think I need space.

My fingers slide when I touch his arms.

If I licked his skin, I wonder if I’d get high. The body probably always tries to get rid of poisons, but for an addict it’s different. It’s like his body has become it’s own drug factory, reproducing what it’s already used. He smells like chemicals, like something artificial, but he feels soft, and his eyes are soft, like Droopy Dog’s in that cartoon. He’s not sad most of the time, it’s just that his eyes are deep set, and he has trouble focusing them sometimes, so he stares at the floor or the wall, and people think he’s sad. I know him so I know that’s not true. I know he sees a drug councilor who he sometimes lies to, but sometimes he tells her the truth, and then she helps him. Sometimes he lets her help.

Most of the time, he doesn’t let me do anything, which hurts so much, because if anyone knows him, I do, and if anyone could help it’s me, but he doesn’t want it, and it seems like there’s nothing I can do so I just accept it. I just let him do what he wants, and I try to be there, so he doesn’t let me go. He has these long slender fingers, and sometimes he makes me feel like a grain of sand, insignificant and tiny, like I could slip through them at any second. I want to be part of his life forever, and part of his next life. I want to believe him when he says he loves me, I want to believe that he’s in control of what he’s doing, that he knows what’s good for him. More than anything, I want to believe that we’re meant to be together, in this life, right now. Believing that helps me to breathe, it helps me feel like my life has meaning, like he might just survive this stage, these drugs, and that this whole thing could be a stupid story we tell our kids one day about our wild youth. My friends have less and less patience for me though. I know the truth; they think I’m an idiot.