December 10, 2008
By Jillian Chafik, Williamsburg, VA

It won’t hurt, just try it once.

Come on now, you feel that rush?

Inhale, inject. Come on, just once!

Let that drug run through your blood.
It can’t hurt, just one try.

Addiction? Nah. Just straight deny.

This can’t lead to hate and lies.

I mean, it’s not like I might die.
It’s been three years, you can’t let go.

Addict? Yes. I know you know.

You’ll end up dead through overdose.

Help us out and just let go.
You don’t understand. I’m fine.

I could easily stop if I really tried.

Besides, I’m happy; living life.

Fine, I’ll quit. Tomorrow, alright?
It’s been two weeks, you said you’d stop.

Yet here you are, injecting shots.

You’re scheming, thinking up of plots.

You’re sitting, staring at the clock.

You’re looking for ways to find your next fix.

You’re trying to tell me you’re happy like this?

Believe me, Craig. It’s no way to live.

You’re reckless, reliant. You need heroin.
You don’t understand. Why can’t you comprehend?

I need this, I know. I won’t ever end.

You’re trying to help, why? Listen, it’s pointless.

I don’t want to stop, I don’t care that I’m a mess.
Man, isn’t this great? No troubles, no cares.

We’re just wasting the days, no more nightmares.

Except for your friend. Man, what’s her deal?

She’s bringing us down, being so real.

She nags about death, her fears through the nights.

She nags about drugs, says we’re wasting our lives.

What makes her think she knows she’s so right?

She doesn’t know smack, how smack is our life.
Man, you told me this wouldn’t hurt.

You lied. This needle, I’m telling you, burns.

You said I’d be able to refrain after once.

I haven’t been able to turn smack down since.
Hey, that’s my needle; it’s not good to share.

(Avoids eye contact while Craig’s left to stare)

Its okay, I guess. No troubles, no cares?

Okay, good. Man, I’m out of here.
Hey, can we talk? I made a mistake.

I should’ve said no, but now I have AIDs.

I should’ve listened to what you had to say.

But hey, I’m sorry. At least now I’m straight.

I’ve gone through the shivers, the aches and the sweats.

It’s out of my system; it’s out of my head.

I’m not sure how long I have left to live.

But please take me back, please be my friend.
Of course I forgive you; of course I’m still here.

I won’t let you live all alone in this fear.

Look at me, wipe away all those tears.

What’s that in your eyes, why aren’t they clear?

Was all that just lies? You’re not really clean?

But you still might die; you expect me to believe?

You don’t really care. Were you looking for money?

For all I care now, you can die in the streets.
I told him that night to be careful with this.

It’s not any game, playing with heroin.

You know, I have it, too, this AIDs illness.

He should’ve told me, I could’ve helped out a bit.
I said awful things, I can’t take them back.

You know what I mean? I hate this drug, smack.

I’m here at your grave, flowers in hand.

I’m sorry for this; sorry I got mad.

Would it have helped, if I’d helped you out?

Or would you have just continued on down?

I’m sorry I turned away, sorry you caved.

I’m sorry this had to end at your grave.

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