This is hell.
Every last grain of sand,
Is a searing hot cinder
Burning the bare bottoms of your feet.
Piercing heat through your skin,
Straight into your splintered bones.
The heat melts through.
Weaving a path through your insides.
Leaving little ashes in it's wake.
A collapsed vein hidden behind veils of smoke.
Dig around in your skin,
To find some kind of sick satisfaction.
A contentment only acquired from the pierce of a needle.
Deteriorating slowly,
Giving everything up,
To have some excuse to inhale.
With each shot,
Every hit to your bloodstream..
It's simply more of an excuse to die.