drugs are too obvious... and so are you. 

In the time that I’ve been here, where ever “here” might be, I’ve slowly started coming back from the dead. All the work I had put into destroying myself is being reversed. My ribs looked less like the skeletal bars on either side of my bed, “to keep the patient from falling out” I was told.  They were more prison bars to me.  The hollows in my cheeks began to fill out, my eyes became less and less sunken everyday.  I had forgotten what I looked like with blood in my face.

I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

Imogene used to be my drug of choice, my fix, my score, my Betty, my skag. My beginning.  My end. My morphine drip.  Now they’re pushing actual morphine into me on the constant.  It blandly acts as a substitute, shushing my aching need for her, rolling over my desire and love like a thick, heavy fog.  I felt like a fucking traitor. They were slowly and systematically removing all the physical manifestations of my complete and utter heartbreak, and I was powerless to stop it. I hate knowing that soon, she’ll be gone completely. Every single trace of her eradicated. No matter how hard I try, no matter how desperate I am to protect her, they manage to take her from me bit by beautiful bit. 

I missed her more than anything.  She even stopped crawling through my skin, ceased scraping my bones.  I felt nothing.  I missed the scent of her on me. I missed the warmth of her eyes and the way my stomach leapt at the sight of her.  Imogene was so beautiful it was like she made everything exciting and magical.  Now that she’s gone, I find myself blindsided by the normalcy of life. I hate not having much to look forward to everyday.  I used to be so overcome with her, the need of her, the thought of her, thetouchthetastethesmell of her... I used to be so taken with her that I knew nothing else.  I was simply living and breathing Imogene and she was beautiful and I was beautiful and everything was just fucking beautiful. But now… now… now I had to feel everything I had forgotten about. I hate feeling everything to it’s fullest extent, undiluted, unfiltered by my obsession with her.  I hate having anything that's not her affect me.

If only she would just come back.  If I could see her, just see her one more time…  I know it’s gonna hurt like hell when she leaves again. But I gotta see her.  I have to.  I need to. Maybe to remind myself that she was real, that I had the loveliest thing in the world once.  And I had her, I really did. She followed my lead and mirrored my want; she was so forceful in loving me back, in needing me too, so ready to die by my word. And stupidly, for whatever stupid reason my stupid disintegrating brain invented, I left.  I started this tragic chain of events by taking the first step, and by taking that step right out the door.  I’ve never felt power of control like that in my life and I abused the hell out of it.  Because now… I don’t have her.  Now I have nothing.

I want to turn all the regret I harbor in my heart into a stone cold killer. I want to dispatch it through my body like an assassin.  I want to let it kill off my blood cells by the gazillions and snipe my organs out one by one, pick them off two by two, until there’s nothing left of me but a few gnawed bones and really, really great hair.

All I can think about is laying eyes on her again.  At the rate they’re going not only will I get out of here someday, and but I'll be as strong as an ox, too.  Restored to factory settings if you will, smacking of vitality and functionality.  Of "wholeness".  Of "wellness".  And all for not.  With a so much time spent awake and immobile, Imogene-free, I’ve nothing to do but think.  And what I think is I’m going to use all of the ridiculous goddamn good health they’re forcing on me to find this “Good Samaritan” and throttle the life out of him.  I’m going to hunt him down like the dog that he is for interrupting my plans to rot away.  For relegating me to a long, full life without the only thing I could live for.  And then I’m going to find that happy place in the dirt again and settle back in, continue on nothing but the want of her.  And that’ll be “all she wrote”. I swore I would die without her, and yet here I am, all the fuck alone and… eating Jell-O.

No, no, I have a plan.  I have every intention of keeping my promise, so when the vulture comes in and rasps “Who is Imogene” I clamp my lips shut and look out the window.  I’ve never felt so fiercely protective of anything.  Even hearing her name roll off the withered tongue of some ignorant wench makes me violent and vicious and thirsty for blood.  But I guarded her diligently, not a word betraying Imogene’s beauty by escaping my mouth and attempting the impossible task of doing her justice.  “WHO…” the acid-and-gravel persists, “is Imogene.” Everything a statement, nothing a question.  I don’t know if it’s because Bitchface thinks she already knows the answer or if she doesn’t really care what that may be or if she’s just hoping the mention of her will draw my concealed darling out in the open to be preyed upon.  But I’ll be damned before I let some scrounging hag damage and disrespect what is obviously utter perfection, or worse, greedily snatch her up and fly away with her forever .  Imogene never crawled through my skin anymore because I had hid her so deep in this diseased, malfunctioning heart.  Anything that would alert the people around me to her mere existence was locked up and away from prying words, from probing eyes, .  From the vulture's little minions.  From thieves.  From those that mean her harm.  It's like I'm driven to keep her safe, to protect her.  I'm keeping her all to my slowly mending self, and hopefully there will be something left of her when I finally climb back down into whatever ditch or gutter I was fished out of.

God almighty I missed her. She’s consumed my thoughts.  She hungrily swallowed every last ounce of love I had and moved on to devour my spirit. Now that she’s left me with nothing but empty, I want her to devour my body as well.

Imogene, my Imogene, my beginning.  My end.

I’m counting down the days until I can feed myself to my secrets.