I've always felt safe in my heroin's arms. Laying in comfort with zero control. I think my addiction is minor at most. More routine than addiction. I work behind a counter, ringing up peoples useless shit in an off-brand store. I do it for what comes after everyday in my overpriced bachelor apartment, just a single room and a washroom. I live for the rush of the contents of my wicker box beneath my bed. Time for my bliss, the feeling I miss. The bitter but sweet. My missus, heroin, and her date with my vein. I find the box and bring it up on my bed opening it gives a rush to my head.