The needle was dead and the heroin sky was coming undone. I fought the pain of the gray and cloudy sky above me that was ripping the heart out of my chest. Only $700 wasted and shooting up the shit, but the supply was gone and I was in debt. A broken love triangle on every corner of the shape. And even though the sky slowly became blue, I was addicted to needle of love, the one who had given me the attention when I needed it. But it’s a lot of crap, and we shared the needle and we both got the disease of love. But it was fighting through the slamming doors and the peeling paint from the walls between us. I thought one day “Is this happiness?” because I was happy but I was angry, and you were in the other room, caged up and getting wasted, and I was sitting on a broken recliner with my head in my hands, thinking that maybe this wasn’t the answer. That maybe the darkness we’ve enveloped ourselves in was maybe just a shell we were hiding in. The blue sky and birds chirping outside was a pretty sight, when I stood at the open door, looking at the green. But I always got pulled back into the dark and dingy hole, the cave of ignorance and escape, and for just another few moments I’d bleed faux joy. And I’d wake up the same, the pain of being broke, and on the elastic rope of happy anger that you had been letting me play for the past two years.