I think that drugs are beautiful. And by that, I mean their names. Text speak and slang is dumbing us down, but science is getting more poetic everyday. The psychiatric drugs are some of my favorites with antidepressants such as Citalopram, Sertraline and Mazindol which roll off the tongue like characters from a fantasy novel. Fluoxetine is a hideous, horrible drug which in every case I've seen (and they hand it out like candy around here) including my own has done more harm than good but I'll be damned if it doesn't sound exotic.
I won't take meds anymore, though I'm sure there are doctors who'll tell me I should- but I love the way that they look when written on a prescription pad.
Olazanapine Wasteland is the story under the cut. It's about people I know and about antidepressants.
He is sickened enough for the both of them- it seems as though the sticky haze of ecstasy and sex is not quite enough to cloud a prudish sense of shame somewhere in the pit of his stomach.
Not that she cares, of course- she’s too far gone by this point; the kaleidoscope of chemicals in her brain turning to swirling colours and shapes far more attractive than the grey smears of something ‘rational’ or ‘socially acceptable’.
It gets in your brain, she always says, and twists everything up til there’s nothing left but, I dunno, the most basic animal part of you. The part that wants blood and sex and doesn’t give a shit about anything else.
He smells it on her –that ‘most basic part of her’-the moment she’s on him, dripping pheromones like a bitch in heat, her upper lip sticky with sweat, the dirt, blood and vomit caked underneath her fingernails. She hasn’t showered in days and there are dogs on the street that smell better than she does. He wonders if it’s because if, after months of threatening, they finally turned her water off or if this is out of choice. If choice is the right word to use. ‘Choice’ implies something freeing or independant , when she seems as walled in as the rest of them. Moreso, even; like something wild backed into a corner, a dart full of medication shot right into her spine.
She’s there now, in the centre of the room- her fingers twined around the neck of a beer bottle. He wants to twine his fingers around her neck, over the red welt where his teeth found her skin, and clamp down hard. Squeeze some sense, something at the very least human into her, or squeeze the life right out. He isn’t too fussy about which.
Earlier, she’d raised her arm to the sky and a fuzz of bristly hairs caught the light from her underarm. Lost in a fuzz coloured like weak cider and piss, he’d secreted her away to the toilets, slid off her tights- laddered, holed and crusted with dirt, of course- and felt his way between her legs feeling the coarse, primordial prickles of her stubble against the shallow welts in his palm. There was a glazed look on her face brought on by the alcohol mingling with her medication but that didn’t stop them rutting in the bathroom, the floor lightly spattered with the eggy-yellow chunks of someone else’s vomit. Her lips had tasted synthetic and fruity from the lipgloss smeared around her mouth and there was Sertraline in her saliva
It’s the kind of thing he can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from, though he knows it makes him a bad person for staring, mouth wide open. Like watching a train wreck or someone picking a scab in front of him. He sees her and is filled with both repugnance and fascination; a girl thrown through the windscreen of a crashing car, without any kind of seatbelt or air bag to soften the blow. She’s lying battered and bruised, blood pouring from wide open gashes onto the road with the wreck of a life around her, she’s at a party with her top pulled down her chest to reveal two pink swirls of areola, nipples standing erect like their screaming for attention along with the rest of her.
It’s about as alluring as a punch in the prick.
As alluring has the come down when the endorphins give way to depressants and she trembles at him through sad eyes like a nervous Yorkshire terrier who pisses herself in the pound.
He’s heard before that the crazy girls are always the best in bed. But there is a line between damaged goods and bestiality- if he squints hard enough he can still see it.
I won't take meds anymore, though I'm sure there are doctors who'll tell me I should- but I love the way that they look when written on a prescription pad.
Olazanapine Wasteland is the story under the cut. It's about people I know and about antidepressants.
He is sickened enough for the both of them- it seems as though the sticky haze of ecstasy and sex is not quite enough to cloud a prudish sense of shame somewhere in the pit of his stomach.
Not that she cares, of course- she’s too far gone by this point; the kaleidoscope of chemicals in her brain turning to swirling colours and shapes far more attractive than the grey smears of something ‘rational’ or ‘socially acceptable’.
It gets in your brain, she always says, and twists everything up til there’s nothing left but, I dunno, the most basic animal part of you. The part that wants blood and sex and doesn’t give a shit about anything else.
He smells it on her –that ‘most basic part of her’-the moment she’s on him, dripping pheromones like a bitch in heat, her upper lip sticky with sweat, the dirt, blood and vomit caked underneath her fingernails. She hasn’t showered in days and there are dogs on the street that smell better than she does. He wonders if it’s because if, after months of threatening, they finally turned her water off or if this is out of choice. If choice is the right word to use. ‘Choice’ implies something freeing or independant , when she seems as walled in as the rest of them. Moreso, even; like something wild backed into a corner, a dart full of medication shot right into her spine.
She’s there now, in the centre of the room- her fingers twined around the neck of a beer bottle. He wants to twine his fingers around her neck, over the red welt where his teeth found her skin, and clamp down hard. Squeeze some sense, something at the very least human into her, or squeeze the life right out. He isn’t too fussy about which.
Earlier, she’d raised her arm to the sky and a fuzz of bristly hairs caught the light from her underarm. Lost in a fuzz coloured like weak cider and piss, he’d secreted her away to the toilets, slid off her tights- laddered, holed and crusted with dirt, of course- and felt his way between her legs feeling the coarse, primordial prickles of her stubble against the shallow welts in his palm. There was a glazed look on her face brought on by the alcohol mingling with her medication but that didn’t stop them rutting in the bathroom, the floor lightly spattered with the eggy-yellow chunks of someone else’s vomit. Her lips had tasted synthetic and fruity from the lipgloss smeared around her mouth and there was Sertraline in her saliva
It’s the kind of thing he can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from, though he knows it makes him a bad person for staring, mouth wide open. Like watching a train wreck or someone picking a scab in front of him. He sees her and is filled with both repugnance and fascination; a girl thrown through the windscreen of a crashing car, without any kind of seatbelt or air bag to soften the blow. She’s lying battered and bruised, blood pouring from wide open gashes onto the road with the wreck of a life around her, she’s at a party with her top pulled down her chest to reveal two pink swirls of areola, nipples standing erect like their screaming for attention along with the rest of her.
It’s about as alluring as a punch in the prick.
As alluring has the come down when the endorphins give way to depressants and she trembles at him through sad eyes like a nervous Yorkshire terrier who pisses herself in the pound.
He’s heard before that the crazy girls are always the best in bed. But there is a line between damaged goods and bestiality- if he squints hard enough he can still see it.
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