CRACKED OPEN LETTER - rebeka singer

I want it harder. More. Always. I’m not an addict. Ringing is good. High means something inspiring. I love you, too. There’s never enough.

Until there’s no product left, and I can accept that, at least until tomorrow.

See, I told you I’m not an addict.

Not seeing straight is the best. Swaying, my favorite. Can I get another hit?

No monitor for this drug. Why? It’s secret. People, too judgmental. There are no allies.  
I want to be so fucked up I pass out awake. I’ve had it a few times. One of them I was with my dealer and a friend. My friend left the room. There I was, passed out awake. The surrealist, bestest state. I couldn’t move. Our dealer leaned over my body, started with his hands all over my chest. Neon lights and shapes and fantasies swimming in my head. My friend came back. It was okay in the end.

Still call the guy for shit. I mean, his shit is the best.

I’m a sloppy user.

My lungs feel kicked.

I never listen to anybody. (How cliché?)

I was going to say something else but I lost it somewhere in my head. 

Rebeka Singer
Jesus’ Son
Denis Johnson