has gone somewhere. I pull myself up on the tattered couch, pushing aside all the clothes and things that are scattered everywhere. The room is all dark and I’m sweating. My breathing is strained. For some reason my shirt is off, my ribs sticking through the skin—tracks up and down both arms. From where I’d missed the vein while shooting up, my arms are swollen and aching. I’m broken out all over and thin, so goddamn thin.
