the back of my throat. Or at a concert, when you can feel the music in your blood, pounding. The first sip of alcohol, the warmth spreading through your veins, sluggish. The stubborn snag against the first layers of skin, the air invading the cut, endorphins singing.

I am addicted to addiction. Addicted to the boiling hum that that screams of life. I miss it, a cigarette in hand, wind in my hair, booze in the water bottle at my feet, a blade in my pocket. Security, like a child s blanket, within reach, safe.

I have no escape, at the moment. An occasional cigarette; I'm forbidden to buy them. No booze available; I live with the parents. And ironically, I got razorblades for Christmas. When I opened the gift, the monster in my blood roared, purring. I put them away, out of site, but I know exactly where they're laying, in hiding, just waiting for me to slip. Its been 877 days. A very long time.

I wonder, how do normal people do this, live without relieving the pain. What do they do, when the emotions bottle up and burst, scalding, acid tears. Do normal people shake until they vomit, when the world weighs too much? How do they relearn how to breathe, after waking up screaming in the dark?

How do I become one of them?