We know no other home.
Pumping poison to our pulse
The needle sinks deeper still.
We tolerate the pain for fear of vacancy, emptiness.
Our skin is turning blue.
failing follicles, falling facades.
We resist but our hand stays on the syringe
Our own index injecting further.
You ridicule our struggle
pull away, you say.
But this inescapable, invisible od is relentless.
We're forever bound to this sciamachy.
It gives us purpose.
If you're not here you can't know,
when the venom peaks
we're saved by indescribable joy
joy that vanishes any memory of past hurt
and again the cycle continues
We know no other home.
Either we pull out the needle and face the void
or we live for the moments of life.
Eventually all crumble and fall.
We know no other home.
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