i am numb.

diary empty.

when do i write?

when did i write?…

when i was fifteen. sixteen. seventeen. eighteen.

when i lived at home. every night

the journals date back years.

when i could feel.

or more evidently when i didn’t have a choice.

amsterdam has its exceptions. sometimes the pain physical & mental pierced through.

i just buried it deeper.

i got lost in process.

but i love weed.

i love the way it slowly creeps into my body. warming.

it’s warming embrace.

my eyes roll back.

my eyelids close as i retreat into my body.

watching as the smoke slowly saunters it’s way through me.

top to toe.

on it’s completion. i open my eyes.

i am forced into reality.

at this point i hate weed.

i no longer want to be high.

& now writing this i can conclude…

i do not love weed.

as it does not let me stay in that place.

escape to the darkness of my shut eyelids.

dance with the shapes of white that dart around.

nor does it silence.

rather the silence makes the guilt louder.

the world that has not paused. nor stopped. louder.

only i am silenced.