Track Marks
A reverie for brave readers
I draw one deepening breath as I’m drawn nearer to you, the never-had-a-chance chiaroscuro angel lit by ruination FROM WITHIN.
Capricious, yes. The ego of a king? Undeniable. And yet, softness envelopes the contextual space where we stand.
Braided by cautionary ink tracing down each, artificed arm. Your left is dominant, I can tell, is this what makes you so alluring? Is this why I’m locked in some motionless naiveté?
Twenty-four with a cherubic face only dreamers can wish for.
AWAKE is the word, it’s the reality, it’s your rule. Whatever wheel-spun weight holding you in place separates your luckless cause and my fortunate effect, you’ll never tell.
In this coming minute, I’m here only to know.
The venin corruption in that syringe scares me, yet it’s warmed between your kinetic fingers like fresh love. A liqueur of pure consequence, and how you embrace vitiation?
One storied, bluish vein dotted with history is pierced with no hesitation.
You never flinch.
Open-mouthed, I’m transfixed in closed mimesis. Your chosen chestnut-colored eyes maintain focus on embedded death, never quick, nor peaceful. This slow unbecoming mar-marking years of inevitability sucks tranquility from the room.
Yet the vulnerability is real.
BOOM = blood floods your sharp permeation, it’s swirling, binding to the crystalline substance inside. You tilt your head to glance at me; I’m. Still. Watching.
Your index fingernail covers the driving cataclysmic force as you press. Hell meets you in a picosecond, merely masquerading as heaven.
Slowly, slowly now, moving closer to you, I clasp the back of your head and plead. I parley. Fuck, I even pray.
For. You. To. Get. Off. This. Destructive. Drug.
You smile and laugh, patting me on my shoulder like we’d known each other our entire lives. I don’t even know your name, nor do you know mine, and with two spoken words from your slurring innocence, abstract truth is reframed.
“I can’t”
These words will sting forever.
© Edward Swafford 2025
This piece was difficult to pen, I imagine it’s difficult to read.
As part of my outreach work in the LGBTQ+ male community, I’ve fostered relations with a slew of organizations helping drug and/or methamphetamine-addicted gay and bisexual men.
The above story is my account of a welfare check for a young male in his 20s living in emergency accommodation for at-risk youth. I was accompanied by two other outreach workers for safety and documentation purposes.
I can feel the pain in this. Deeply. I can feel the boys silent pain you so clearly heard, and the pain you clearly felt hearing it. This is brave and beautiful, my friend.
"AWAKE is the word, it’s the reality, it’s your rule."
I have family members in the midst of meth addiction and this is it, right here. This is what they need, for reasons they might not even know themselves. Fear of something, sometimes themselves. Fear of what will catch them if they nod off, emotionally, physically, mentally, for even a second.
You're doing incredible work - I'm sure you've helped more people than you can possibly imagine.