Friends in a Bag

Now, after a weekend  
all spent in the sky -  
being tossed between boredoms  
and sweet, midnight highs -  
 
I have a craving  
I know I shouldn't have -  
for what I've been saving  
in a perfect plastic bag.  
I am not shaking,  
I simply can't think clear  
enough to leave alone the daydream  
of inhaling all that fear -  
its voice is very quiet  
from the throne inside my lungs,  
so I want to make it stay there,  
at least while my mind is young -  
 
broken up and naughty,  
a holiday child;  
I just watched while I ruined  
the carefully styled,  
responsible, wild,  
invincible, mild,  
and serenely beguiled,  
reckless version of me.  
Now the thoughts in my brain  
are becoming the same -  
do I have enough money? -  
will it feel the same? -  
will the freedom distract me  
from hating my name? -  
I'm debating myself  
on a Saturday train  
and one way or another, I'll win -  
 
My head feels alone;  
it's got friends in a bag,  
and there's no harm in visiting them.  
 
 
~  
 
Age when written: 16,  
written out of need.