Читать книгу Acrobaddict - Joe Putignano - Страница 11

PROLOGUE

Nobody could see it, could they? The people passing by . . . could they see what was happening to me? I stood on a New York City sidewalk with my eyes shut, asleep, dead, lifeless, but not falling over as the cigarette fell from my lips. Could they see him? I wondered. Could they see how behind me the Devil propped me up, like a doll, like a puppet, both claws under my armpits while my head slumped forward, my lips white, skin greenish pale, and the dark circles under my eyes like tiny moons from the City of the Dead? He wouldn’t let go of me. I would fall asleep, and nod out, but never fall over.

Anyone who has walked around the streets of any major city has surely witnessed this before, this amazing inhuman balance of the departed: the “junkie’s nod,” frozen in time, about to fall, but miraculously, we continue to stand. It’s an adagio I perfected over the years. Nobody knows that while we junkies stand there, fading into the nothingness, the Devil holds us close to his lips, close to his skin smelling of burnt cinnamon and ash, as he melodically whispers in our ears, “Come to me, my love; I’ve got you forever and ever; I will devour your soul.” It’s the only voice we can hear above all the others as we stand there like a limp flower about to decay. Once you hear his voice, you will never have a good night’s sleep, or enjoy food or any other earthly thing you once took for granted, because pleasure has a new meaning, and there is only one thing that can bring it. Even if you do manage to sleep, you will only dream of him, night after night, endlessly searching for a way out, wishing you had never known of this luxury, known of this existence, and you awaken only to repeat the nightmare again.

This dance is endless, and this is what it looks like to be locked in between the margins of life and death. Once the Devil hugs you in this way you can never return, and you only learn of his deception once it’s too late. If we could at least fall to the ground, it would mean that he has released his grip, waking us up—but we never wake up. We float in slow motion, hovering over ourselves in bodies that were once beautiful and drug-free. The Devil wants to keep us alive as long as he can, devouring our hearts, destroying everything and everyone we ever loved, because this is what addiction looks like. It’s a one-sided romance with death, but death only comes for day visits and never brings its finality. The Reaper has a truce with the Devil, and can only come once he has taken all the light and love from us. Here is the worst part: I love him and he loves me, and this is my happiness.

“I’m not the only kid

who grew up this way

surrounded by people who used to say

that rhyme about sticks and stones

as if broken bones

hurt more than the names we got called

and we got called them all

so we grew up believing no one

would ever fall in love with us

that we’d be lonely forever

that we’d never meet someone

to make us feel like the sun

was something they built for us

in their tool shed

so broken heart strings bled the blues

as we tried to empty ourselves

so we would feel nothing

don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone

that an ingrown life

is something surgeons can cut away

that there’s no way for it to metastasize

it does

she was eight years old

our first day of grade three

when she got called ugly

we both got moved to the back of the class

so we would stop getting bombarded by spit balls

but the school halls were a battleground

where we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day

we used to stay inside for recess

because outside was worse

outside we’d have to rehearse running away

or learn to stay still like statues giving no clues that we were there

in grade five they taped a sign to her desk

that read beware of dog

to this day

despite a loving husband

she doesn’t think she’s beautiful

because of a birthmark

that takes up a little less than half of her face

kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer

that someone tried to erase

but couldn’t quite get the job done

and they’ll never understand

that she’s raising two kids

whose definition of beauty

begins with the word mom

because they see her heart

before they see her skin

that she’s only ever always been amazing”

An excerpt of the poem To This Day by Shane Koyczan.

From the book Our Deathbeds Will Be Thirsty.