I walked into his house and within minutes we were in the bedroom, two syringes sat there waiting. I wish now I’d turned away and gone home, they were the first of so many with him and I regret every single one.
I sat shaking as he pushed the needle into my arm, pulled back, the flash of blood and in it went. It hit me like a fucking train, my vision fluttered, the rush was so intense, I watched as he did his. I won’t go into details, but we had sex all night, there were two more “slams”.
Thinking about that night now fills me with regret, but at the same time a yearning to do it again. I want to feel like that again, I want to feel my body come alive, I want the rush. Thing is, that’s what addiction is, it’s a craving, it’s the same as wanting my next cigarette, it’s what makes me know it’s something I can never do again. Never.
I can’t write any more now, because writing about it makes me want it, but it also makes me regret it, I’m so ashamed of it, ashamed that it took over my life.
Writing about it makes me crave it and I’m not gonna let it win.