Death, Delivered in Silence
by Haylee Buscay
All the best poisons come with a thrill--
a dark-crimson room, seduction,
the velvet curtain of the puppeteer theater.
An elation to be someone else,
if only temporarily.
Addiction doesn’t ask for a name.
A rolled-up dollar bill, gliding heavenward.
Chasing ghosts across white dust.
Liquid powder, slick and bitter,
trailing down the throat.
Burnt lungs—an escape, disguised as warmth.
The smell of cat piss on crinkled foil,
chasing the dragon in zigzags.
Frantic, searching for a viable vein,
hunting flesh for a willing line,
a piercing jab dissolving into pleasure,
ecstasy flirting with fear.
The loneliness doesn’t hurt,
just hover, sorrow waiting for its cue
in the hush between scenes.
a dark-crimson room, seduction,
the velvet curtain of the puppeteer theater.
An elation to be someone else,
if only temporarily.
Addiction doesn’t ask for a name.
A rolled-up dollar bill, gliding heavenward.
Chasing ghosts across white dust.
Liquid powder, slick and bitter,
trailing down the throat.
Burnt lungs—an escape, disguised as warmth.
The smell of cat piss on crinkled foil,
chasing the dragon in zigzags.
Frantic, searching for a viable vein,
hunting flesh for a willing line,
a piercing jab dissolving into pleasure,
ecstasy flirting with fear.
The loneliness doesn’t hurt,
just hover, sorrow waiting for its cue
in the hush between scenes.
Stuck in a funhouse full of mirrors,
eyes too empty, grin too wide.
Sharp bones, a fading frame.
The man has left the room,
but the body has stayed,
an echoed reflection.
Taunting that violated face,
the glass begins to shatter.
Why reach out to stop it
when the pieces won’t fit anymore?
Deeper in the carnival of chaos--
a hall full of masks.
Which ones have yet to be tried on?
Surely not the ones
made of porcelain skin,
with no room for scars?
The masks didn’t lie--
they just said nothing at all.
eyes too empty, grin too wide.
Sharp bones, a fading frame.
The man has left the room,
but the body has stayed,
an echoed reflection.
Taunting that violated face,
the glass begins to shatter.
Why reach out to stop it
when the pieces won’t fit anymore?
Deeper in the carnival of chaos--
a hall full of masks.
Which ones have yet to be tried on?
Surely not the ones
made of porcelain skin,
with no room for scars?
The masks didn’t lie--
they just said nothing at all.
In this basement with no clocks
time is lost, hours erased.
Forgetting is a sort of ritual here
where guilt doesn’t follow.
Family photos gather dust,
empty chair, long abandoned.
while chasing oblivion--
Particles shine where the light hits,
glittery specks, each mote a memory,
—now a sanctuary of ash.
Some debts are written in years
behind a beautiful mahogany desk,
calculating a toll to pay.
What is the price of a life?
Redemption needs time,
but time doesn't unravel in reverse.
When dancing with demons,
it’s easier to overdose on escape.
time is lost, hours erased.
Forgetting is a sort of ritual here
where guilt doesn’t follow.
Family photos gather dust,
empty chair, long abandoned.
while chasing oblivion--
Particles shine where the light hits,
glittery specks, each mote a memory,
—now a sanctuary of ash.
Some debts are written in years
behind a beautiful mahogany desk,
calculating a toll to pay.
What is the price of a life?
Redemption needs time,
but time doesn't unravel in reverse.
When dancing with demons,
it’s easier to overdose on escape.
Haylee Buscay is a medical student in Arizona and the single mother of a 13-year-old daughter. Addiction, through her daughter's father, has left its mark on their lives—but writing has given Buscay a way to navigate and understand that pain. She began taking writing classes at the community college, where she discovered my love for poetry. She hopes to reach both addicts and the families of addicts through her work.