by Joe DeLucia
A physician's relationship with addicted patients and his own addiction.
Sucked at My Soul
By Joe DeLucia
Swift downhill spiral, get clean or die.
Junkies, alkies, users hooked on me,
Cling like acid etched glass,
Cry for relief, wanting, seek reprieve.
Needy, baby to mother’s teat.
Helpless, homeless, hopeless.
Smell of each so unique,
Knew who as I entered ER doors,
Putrid urine-soaked clothes worn for days,
Rotted meth teeth, odor of death,
Rancid red wine vomit stung my throat
Harsh whiskey emesis burnt my eyes.
Layers of clothes, caked on with dirt,
Home for lice, maggots, weeping, oozing flesh.
Needled pockmarked moon crater skin.
Knew them by name, they knew me, Doctor D.
Emotional bound, for I was once them.
What would Jesus do?
Feed, comfort, clothe, give drug of choice.
Med experts say no, let them hit rock bottom.
Once sober, streeted to swim or sink.
Eyes sear into mine, how could I allow this?
In time, one by one did not return.
Always another took their place.
Sudden void, stomach hollow, missed them.
Guilt filled heart ached, pondered,
Did they get clean or die?