candiedspit

[candiedspit]

If it’s not too personal, what happened with the gabapentin? Taking it right now and it seems to help me, but I’ve heard a lot of nasty things about it as well! Haven’t been on it too long, though…Sending my love (per usual)! 🫶🏻

Not too personal I wish more people would talk about it! So I’ve been taking gabapentin on and off for like four years, using it for sleep. But in the ,at three months, I’ve been using it every day I used to take it at work to make the work easier lol and sometimes it doesn’t even really work so just for myself I’d like to take breaks from it. It’s not really addictive but it feels weird to take it every day to chase a certain high from it. Sometimes it makes me really euphoric lol anyway I wouldn’t worry about it if it helps you!

#ask

[candiedspit]

Done with gabapentin. Elias is coming home tomorrow afternoon. People love me. People want me alive. I wrote three pages of my novella, listening to Frank Sinatra and vaping huge blows of smoke. Earlier I laid down but couldn’t sleep, the pungent scent of dog piss, dirty clothes all around me. I always find a way to make it to the next morning. I don’t wanna be alone. Leave me alone.

#personal #I’m ok but probably need to raise my dose of latuda

[candiedspit]

Moon In Speed Moodboard

#personal

[candiedspit]

You thought you found the thing, I said out loud to the garbage cans, the vaguely threatening spikes of the fence guarding the park, the elderly man at the end of his millionth cigarette.

You thought you had found the thing that was going to keep you alive, I continued, waving my cigarette around as I spoke.

The girl you had been waiting to meet your entire life. The crystal to your ball. The one who knew the way you grooved, who understood the world as you knew it, saw the fissions in the skyline, watched the sun dribble down like a belly dancer with her foreign diamonds, tasted the same heat, heard orchestras in building demolitions, the melodies in a cup of black coffee as you weep in the living room, hungover and sweating you are done with the beast. But going back and back like a wounded dog. And she wanted the same things. To be taken by a UFO at the end of a long summer day; the wheat standing still in the cool night. She wanted an easy exit. She wanted to be anybody else. She wanted to dream as you wanted to dream. She shared the same language, the tones of people trapped in a burning room.

And you had her; for a year, you were in the same room, I said, speaking to the trees.

Licking the same piece of licorice, falling into the same wondrous and terrible sleep. Sometimes too altered to speak. Not needing to speak. You shot her up on Christmas Eve, her face glistening with hushed pinks from the lights you convinced her to get. You wore her panties around the house. Filled a plastic kiddie pool with water from the hose and waved, handed out lollipops to the kids next door and to whoever you saw. Opioid receptors. Movies you would forget you watched. Fights over a gram. Slow dancing in the kitchen to Sinatra records, kissing her exactly where she wanted to be kissed. Staying together on the couch, watching the world pass through you.

We never wanted that world, she said one evening as the newscast told us about terrorism, wars. We never wanted that stupid world.

There’s no room for us, I said and held her close.

You wanted to be an eyelash on her face. She was petroleum. She was cake. She taught you how to use a needle. You had figured out a way to live. And could see yourself living in the trailer park for years to come.

And eventually you and her would kick the habit.

This was a secret desire. A week of atomic bombs and shallow waters. But you would get clean and meet her parents. There would be large thanksgiving dinners, happiness.

And when she ended things, you bought a gun. But you were rushed to the clinic before you could smear yourself out of existence. You mourn her at night. You smell her milk. You hope she is in a field, watching the light lounge over the grass. You hope she is alive. You hope she wants to be. As for yourself, the bomb could go off and you would light another cigarette, watching the fallout blot the sunlight with a famed nonchalance. And as the fire reached you, you would picture her in your mind. The only miracle you’ve known.

[candiedspit]

I wanna be a street photographer at my big age

#personal #a writer and photographer

[candiedspit]

I want Wes Anderson to direct my suicide

#personal

[candiedspit]

depressed as shit

#personal

[candiedspit]

You thought you found the thing, I said out loud to the garbage cans, the vaguely threatening spikes of the fence guarding the park, the elderly man at the end of his millionth cigarette.

You thought you had found the thing that was going to keep you alive, I continued, waving my cigarette around as I spoke.

The girl you had been waiting to meet your entire life. The crystal to your ball. The one who knew the way you grooved, who understood the world as you knew it, saw the fissions in the skyline, watched the sun dribble down like a belly dancer with her foreign diamonds, tasted the same heat, heard orchestras in building demolitions, the melodies in a cup of black coffee as you weep in the living room, hungover and sweating you are done with the beast. But going back and back like a wounded dog. And she wanted the same things. To be taken by a UFO at the end of a long summer day; the wheat standing still in the cool night. She wanted an easy exit. She wanted to be anybody else. She wanted to dream as you wanted to dream. She shared the same language, the tones of people trapped in a burning room.

And you had her; for a year, you were in the same room, I said, speaking to the trees.

Licking the same piece of licorice, falling into the same wondrous and terrible sleep. Sometimes too altered to speak. Not needing to speak. You shot her up on Christmas Eve, her face glistening with hushed pinks from the lights you convinced her to get. You wore her panties around the house. Filled a plastic kiddie pool with water from the hose and waved, handed out lollipops to the kids next door and to whoever you saw. Opioid receptors. Movies you would forget you watched. Fights over a gram. Slow dancing in the kitchen to Sinatra records, kissing her exactly where she wanted to be kissed. Staying together on the couch, watching the world pass through you.

We never wanted that world, she said one evening as the newscast told us about terrorism, wars. We never wanted that stupid world.

There’s no room for us, I said and held her close.

You wanted to be an eyelash on her face. She was petroleum. She was cake. She taught you how to use a needle. You had figured out a way to live. And could see yourself living in the trailer park for years to come.

And eventually you and her would kick the habit.

This was a secret desire. A week of atomic bombs and shallow waters. But you would get clean and meet her parents. There would be large thanksgiving dinners, happiness.

And when she ended things, you bought a gun. But you were rushed to the clinic before you could smear yourself out of existence. You mourn her at night. You smell her milk. You hope she is in a field, watching the light lounge over the grass. You hope she is alive. You hope she wants to be. As for yourself, the bomb could go off and you would light another cigarette, watching the fallout blot the sunlight with a famed nonchalance. And as the fire reached you, you would picture her in your mind. The only miracle you’ve known.

#my poetry #my protagonist does a monologue as he walks through the park while going through amphetamine withdrawals

[candiedspit]

Just wanted to let you know I’m REALLY proud of you for making it through all this! I’ve been going through mental health issues as well and I honestly think you’re very aware of your situation—which is how we take back our power! Whatever diagnosis you receive, I will continue to root for you! Hopefully, our identities can become more than the crises we face. In good time, my friend. 🤍

Thank you so much! You’re always so supportive, I truly do appreciate knowing someone is out there rooting for me. It means the world. I’m sorry you’re going through similar issues, I keep telling everyone—friends, family, strangers waiting in line with me at the supermarket—that this spring has been absolutely insane. I think my awareness comes from not wanting to lose control. The more you can name something, it loses its power. Something like that. Anyway, love you a million times. Hope things get better easier for us all. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

#ask

[candiedspit]

Beautiful pancake Angel who watches over me as I write about suicide and opiates

#personal

[candiedspit]

Letter to Marco

#my poetry #Marco is my beautiful pen pal

[candiedspit]

What is your favorite thing you've ever written?

hmmm….probably shrine! My first novella / piece of long form fiction. I wrote it during the last semester of college in two months, furiously typing onto my laptop for hours at night. I think it’s perfect. Other than that, I love hundred pounds cowboy cus I wrote it while hallucinating and it turned out pretty well.

#ask

[candiedspit]

you look so pretty with black hair 🥺😍

Thank u my love!! I actually like it a lot more than the blonde lol

#ask

[candiedspit]

#personal

[candiedspit]

How I’m feeling today

#personal #My best friend is visiting his other friend in the Bronx #and I took too much melatonin last night #so I feel dog shit

[candiedspit]

Draft of a chapter where the protagonist overdoses

#my poetry #possible cw?

[candiedspit]

Belinda’s Dance (part of my novella)

My banana pancake, my grace of God. I think of you most at night when the guilt sits like a film of grime over my entire self. I have to sit out on the porch chain smoking to rid myself of the feeling. I think of you as a child, talking in all the home movies, that black head of curls as you blew out candles, drew on walls, put on my makeup, watched the rain with me. You were young when you first discovered that there were different way to feel, ways to feel them. I was tough on you. I worry I was too tough but the morning I found you on the grass, those green crooked star eyes staring into nowhere, I knew this thing would be hard to kill. And my stinking balm, you did well for a couple of years. One evening, you told me you wanted to live, to embrace the palm of the future. What do you see there? I asked, rubbing the hair out of your eyes. Fantastic light beams, you said. Working on a farm, maybe. Bumfuck, paradise. Falling asleep to Simone records, the sweet taste of milk still in my mouth. Ticks drinking my blood. I held this dream close to my chest, hoped to see you in Paris drinking vintage wines, learning the language, the names of stars. But you moved out a few weeks after graduation into a small, dim apartment with Jameson and we lost touch. Sometimes, you would rise from your dimsum liquor stupor and give me a call, make promises we both knew were only optimistic fabrications; studying flowers, moving out to Idaho for a fresh start, church. It was Jameson who told me you were a drunkard. He can’t work. He fucking stinks. He comes home and wobbles through the doorway like an illustration of Hugh Hefner and passes out. He steals my bills. White powders in his nostrils. I told myself you would get back on the train, so you missed a few stops. This was part of being young. But when you moved to Wisconsin with that girl—living in a trailer park, track marks, slurring on the alphabet—I knew you were gone. Opiate son. Opiate God. I refused your calls for a year, worked myself dead at the store, dated men, dated anyone to distract me from the fact that my creation could not bear the world I laid out for him. When I saw you between rehab stays at Laura’s house for thanksgiving, thin as Christ, clean but covered in bruises shaped like state capitals, I let you fold into my arms. I never asked what happened in Wisconsin. You smelled like peach shampoo. I kissed you for the last time that evening.

#my poetry #this is a letter from the protagonists mom to him