This might not make sense.

I use the term “junkie” very specifically. Syringes, vein puncture, the spoon, all the fallen caps & the wondrous crimson cloud. For example, my last stint in drug bliss… I was an intranasal meth user. 2 years approximately. I didn’t then, nor do I now, looking back, consider that ‘being a junkie’.

A couple of years before that, I was shooting the purest ice [meth] one could ever dissolve in saline in a spoon, daily, for two years. This is junkie behaviour.

Simply, junkie = syringes.

I like the spike. I am or was that person who would shoot innocuous saline [with no physical 'high' value] when I ran out of drugs, just to witness the crimson cloud.

And now we get to the crimson cloud. Oh, the lovely lovely… I am getting chills just by thinking about it… crimson cloud.

How to define it to do it justice?

I don’t like it.

I don’t know how I got it. But I don’t care. I don’t like it.

I’m not ashamed of my spike past, but if I’m going to have a noticeable bruise so veinously caused… the least I could do was get high.

But that’s not true. I don’t know why this bruise bothers me. I just don’t want it.

I don’t care if people see it and direct their brains to travel the vein-bruise-as-junkie route. As no one ever does anyway.

There’s just something.

It’s not allowed.

This is different. This is not I bumped my knee and bruised-bruise. It’s not even I punch a wall in drunken rage and bruise-fuckin’-bruise.

This bruise specifically stems out of the veins in my hand and creates a bleed directly under my skin.

It’s not allowed to look this way, be this thing, if I didn’t push through the delicate vein. It’s small, but I never asked to look through my yearbook. But more importantly, I never allowed it to look back.