Sugar Milk

I’m in the fetal position
with an auxiliary cord shoved a quarter inch into my good vein
i used the shoelaces of my earth shoes to make it bulge
and i pumped quarter notes into my bloodstream
and while i listen,
i’m gyrating my hips like booty do in crotches at overcrowded clubs.

*cuts off lights* 

I love how elitist I am. I love that my supply of what gets me high, belongs to me. I love it when passersby covet the gorgeous in my possession. It makes me feel like I know what I’m doing. Especially when I’m able to brew my own shit in my own kitchen and take own self where the fuck I need to be.

So why am I turning all green eyed over my pusherman. I mean after all, he is the one that typically supplies me when I’m low. He gives me the good shit, most of the time, when I ain’t even lookin’ or expectin’. So why is it that I’m irritated this evening? Probably because my pusherman didn’t necessarily make tonight’s fix exclusively for me. No… he shared it with a bunch of other maw’fuckas and I took offense to that.

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