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h e r m e s | a s h

I was born to hollow points sunken into swollen veins and she was happiest when there was poison within her lungs. Golden honey encompassed within a glass vial and she would have my little sister hold the lighter below her silver spoon. Silver spoon, I often watched men born with those tucked into their cheeks- fingers itching to wrap around the jewels rested upon their ivory throats. I'm sorry. I'd mumble, shoulders colliding with pretty pictures and plush leather found itself tucked within fingers swollen with famine. It was easy, I'd buy us all a good meal. One, two, three before me, one, two, three came after.  Middle child, name forged with hits taken from glass pipes and my older sister kept me from shaking when the drugs which cradled me within the womb left me screaming, begging for death before I was old enough to form the words and

I get high like her. I cannot help but take, yearning for the rush it gives me and when that was not enough escalation seemed to be the only solution. I needed more, so much more. I hadn't been home for years by the time I came to understand my mother. Life felt so much more real when it was fleeting. Every moment could be my last and that is when it all meant something. I was born broken, born numb. It takes so much effort to feel, filling myself to the brim with meaningless trinkets and I do not think I could stop if I wanted. 

But I don't want, I take.