Letter From Disease

Dearest Child:

You can't do it faggot!  

You need me and you know it...

To get out of bed; to do your hair; to trust your mom; to find your keys; to scream at your dad; to drive to work--

WAIT, WHO ARE YOU KIDDING... YOU CAN'T HOLD A JOB FUCK FACE...

To write your book; to fuck that guy; to paint that masterpiece, but it's only a masterpiece in your mind, but don't worry, I won't tell nobody, it will be our little secret...

You need me and you know it...

To take a shit; to love that guy; to check into that hotel; to shop for rings at Tiffany's that you can't afford, for that phantom boyfriend who needs me more than he needs you; to ask for a late check out; to call that cab; to lie to your family about where you really are when you are really with me, fucked up, shooting up, sucking me dry, loving every drip, you greedy fucking junkie.

You need me and you know it...

To give him directions; to give your boss the 1000th excuse for not showing up; to scream at your dealer; to invite him over; to fuck that John; to deal with the HIV, to kick out that john and wipe up the blood and shit; the syphilis; the clap, the gonnorrhea; to scratch and pick and make your irritated skin bleed;  the defeated septum; to believe in marshans under your bed and the monsters in your closet.

You need me.
Me.

To kill yourself.
Once and for all.
Do it.
Inject it.
I dare you.
Pussy.
You are still here, but not and you know it.

Love,

Mr. Meth Addiction