 |
DUCK
I
am one of the women from the generations of valium and
miltown-comforted mothers who found dope, stayed, liked-it, hated-it, needed it, kicked it, and fight like hell not to go back in her curling tendrils of nod and spin back into a junkie whore again.
 My name is duck. I am an addict.
You can call me Lisbeth.
Women are not new to junk. Ask Billie, Janis, my mother. We were
startlingly few even twenty years ago to the rooms of Narcotics
Anonymous.
Rather go to Bill's Place, or the Bettty. We still clamber into the
halls of treatment resorts expecting spas or hollow-eyed lesbians whom, like us,
want to convince everyone we can see that "my doctor did this to me."
All women who know junk know what it is to be a lesbian lover to a
bitch. We may come down with muscles twitches and just get better at the doctors'
game; or we may find it at fourteen in the juvie halls when we know we are
headed for hard time in the pen, fuck why not start now while we can still get
out of the little bitch by turning tricks for the lawyer and judges, and
are in basic training for the ripping and running that was previously held for
the men.
I started to tell you my story. But it isn't mine, it belongs to all
of the dolls and blondes and hennas that think "heroin-chic" is going to be
like a new lipstick to try; a new kite in their wind. Their stories are not
all the same, we all have had our special split-quick bag whore pout to paint
onya, jonzie. Bit it back in the throat like a throbbing dick and came up
for another balloon.
M ine is just older, more jaded. Made it longer.
Wanna stick around and listen? Welcome to the world of a junkie who
got five years clean, only to get enough diagnoses hurled at her that now, the
only way out of the pain is keep the junk train moving ... legal this time.
|
|
P
E
O
P
L
E
|
