A Letter To My Drug Dealer

A Letter To My Drug Dealer

Dealer,

As much as I would prefer not to, I catch myself wondering about you from time to time. Are you someones father? brother? uncle? Lover? 
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Obviously you are the product of two parents, but did they love you? Did they show this love and then leave you footprints to walk through?

Surely, this is not the case because then you’d realize how devastated they would be if they ever lost you. Personally, I would never consciously assist someones child in their own suicide, right?

Maybe you’re like me, and you see the aftermath, much too well and way too soon.
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Has grief ruined you? 

Have you allowed it to rot away parts of your heart? Or do you simply numb yourself against any consequences from what you do?

It’s a comman misconception that all addicts are emotionless and cold. This is false, in fact, I would even venture to say that most of us feel way to much. But surely you know that. 
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Have you ever even taken the time to see the true me, the real me? My guess would be no, because that would just complicate your entire mission. 

Truth is, I HATE what you do. You sell poison! I bet you have even sold to children. Since there are no approval processes before the sale. No applications. No one to simply say ‘NO’.

I have been raised to believe that forgiveness is a vital part of our existence.

Regardless, you didn’t put a gun to my head, but you helped to put the poison in the needle that pierced my arm. 

While your wallet was growing fatter, I saw myself shrink and fade, folding in on myself until all that was left was an empty shell full of ‘used to be’s.’

Did you know that I am an artist? 

My paintings were my proof of how beautifully I could observe the broken world and piece it into something worth looking at. 

It breaks my heart that I missed my value, in the art that is my reflection. 

My childhood memories are filled with shots of myself playing and then replaying my homemade dance videos until they were perfect.

But now nobody can see my gifts. They have been lost, in some dark and dusty corner.

I don’t understand how you can willingly and consciously put so many chains on someone you hardly know. You create tears you’ll never taste, crack a voice you won’t hear, and cause pain you will never feel. But you will notice your effects, of this Irw am sure.

Because of your profession, I’ll need to explain to every future friend, lover or associate why I’m so detached. What pain led me to seek you out.

Do I tell my child about me? About the dangers and risks of what I do? Should I read to them about the wonderful mother who dies? Or do I spare them the pain of the knowledge that death doesn’t care how old you are.

If you’ve managed to read this entire thing I only have one question left for you, 

When you see my beautiful face in my black and white obituary would you finally stop selling death? 

Or was I just another notch in your scythe?

Posted by Fran Stone using “WordPress” for Android.

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