Gravel-Surfing

The beautiful woman next to me with her blonde lampshade hair gyrating in front of chimney-swept lashes started snorting heroin when she was merely thirteen years old, an age where the strangely metallic, dirty-carpet scent of cigarettes was still the most shameful admission in my flirtatiously pink diary. Watching her carefully, I cannot imagine her eager nostrils making love to a tightly rolled ten-dollar bill, nor can I understand why she would frighten away the chocolate-coated onyx of her rusty waterfall eyes. For more than two years, she claims, her pupils were the size of poppy seeds, and vomiting was her favorite hobby. I wonder how many times she fastened a rhinestone collar and leash around the furry neck of her addiction, only to clutch onto it like a golden crucifix when it dragged her through the street, waving to onlookers and pretending that she was gravel-surfing with a purpose. I wonder if she will ever be able to let go and watch it gallop into oncoming traffic without throwing herself into the painted metal first Published in 2020 by Nauseated Drive.