Prelude

I practically fall out of the car and stumble towards a home I once called my own. I rattle words like addict and junky around my head like bricks in a washing machine. They don't feel right. I'm not junk. I'm broken. When a person is tired do they not lean on the nearest wall? A plaster and paint veiled lover holding them straight in their time of need. My lover is an escape. An easement of tortured nightmares, walked through in the bright of day. A fate worse than hell, worse than dying. And every day it starts all over again. My time of need is always.
If I was confident that hell was not waiting to show me on an endless loop my mistakes and consequences for being alive, I would have died long ago. I'm not suicidal and this is not a suicide note. I'm self destructive and only hope that I can show someone, anyone, the reasoning behind my dying soul and self emulation.
These are some of my remaining clear thoughts and memories before it all goes black and I pass the line of no return of drug induced psychosis.
These are the memoirs of the suicide partier.

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