You pull in the asphalt circle. It’s that sticky wet blue dark. You’ve got self-rolled pot darts in thin white paper strips still wet with your spit. I’m going to smoke your spit. It’s like we’ve kissed. You sat in the back in Trigonometry. I gave you a twenty. You drove off in your squeaking minivan. I was scared it would wake the house. I lipped the end and lit the other. The twisted one. Blew it out on the patio beneath the back deck. I had school the next morning. A few months and a new man. He got in a new shipment of Gorilla Cookies. A cross between Gorilla Glue and Girl Scout Cookies. The minty stink bled through the tupperware in my backpack after the parking lot deal. I put the sack on the class table and the rest of the kids plugged their noses and went what the hell is that. I offered sex and he wanted cash. I exchanged another twenty and some store gift cards from Christmas. I made a gravity bong with a socket wrench piece and a cut water bottle. Floating on a water filled mason jar. Hole cut in the cap. I pulled up as I lit the packed bowl.

 ///

Milky clouds precipitated. I pushed down as I inhaled. Oh how I loved the burn. I saw fractals and isosceles triangles. Colored in. Dense pockets of patterns like one big canvas of migraine auras. I coughed into my pillow. Some bud spilled on the bed my cat rubbed his face in it like it was catnip. Five years later and the first guy’s a photographer. He’s pretty good. Last time I checked he lived in Philly. Second guy hits me up for head every once in a while. Maybe I’ll throw throat one of these days. Or is that dipping low. I never learned to make rings with smoke. I learned to let habits go. But I want a new guy. I want a gummy. I want to bake a firecracker. Graham base, nutella, green powder ground, layered. Baked in a toaster oven. I want the stink on my clothes. I want to date my plug, my source. I think then I’d truly be intimate. Living for the transaction. Baked out of my mind. Or maybe I’d be seizing from the interaction with my pills. Too much serotonin. Foaming at the mouth in the ER. Carried in by my dealer. Or pushed out of an uber on the curb. Maybe this loneliness and drugless existence is a substance. The distance is the feeling I chase. I chase. I chase.