You're at the top of my lungs

I find she needs them more than she needs me, as the crushed azure tablets find their way down her throat, sparkling and weaving lazily throughout the weeks that have passed. The powder needs no assurance, it has already brought a devastating victory, claiming her nightmares with intangible caresses. It will be night, and as the dark butterflies of epiphany flutter and scream, she is there, and her restless eyes further blackball my blossoming awareness.

Her lithe frame is wracked with convulsions and witch curses.

Wasn't it because of this? Because of these spells, the dark throes that crept past her afterthoughts in the days before the hells. Her salvation was much like Snow White's dearest poison apple in reality as the remains clung to her throat. There was no reprieve as promised, only the demons coming in different forms and swirling with new cruelty, admonishing and imposing on her dwindling state of mind. The crystals were fairies to her. I could never know.

Her eyes flutter into the back of her head as the paroxysm sustains, determined to finally claim her.

It was to be. There was a revolution between us both, a jolt of electric metamorphosis: sudden and permanent. To turn back would be to know no bounds, and weep in utter sorrow at what she has done, what the medication has done, what I have done. It glimmers like a dull malevolent fantasy, dancing in the back of our minds. Yet I do not regret, and as the erratic twitching and the sounds of glass shattering comes to efflorescence, my mind is clear as an autumn night. It is too late to regret.

She stills, her delicate hand falling to her side as her life flows away.

And now, like nothing more than shattered remnants of a short lived dream, she is gone. The rusted cage of her secret addictions was that of a worn book to me; open by its own compromises and the slight rustle of a wary breeze. And though I knew of her loss of reason, I still resolved to drive her to the limit, the ultimate point on the edge of the cliff. The bottle, bottle of toxins and poisons and venom; the bottle of her desires which claimed victory over us both; the bottle that I have taken from her. Her eyes always drew me in, they even draw me in now in their lifeless state, their tainted languid stares. I tell myself she is in slumber, she is waiting for me without inhibition under a blanket of sparkles and freedom as I hold the forsaken package in my tired hands. I have saved her from her  bereavement, and even now I mean to never let her alone. How ironic then, that my means to do so involves the ingestion of the demons ever seeking to take her life?        

Her corpse rests on the floor with so many broken paraphernalia, fair skin fading to an even lighter shade. 

As tablet after tablet passes through my lips, i grind the beryl substance between my teeth, the taste is forbidden and bitter; unpleasant, yet I do this to make it ever more memorable. Like so much cerulean and sapphire powder, the valium drags and weaves down my esophagus at the same time. Is it possible to become satiated on naught but abused medication? I feel like I am full, as my half lidded eyes crawl to the bottle once in my grasp, empty and now on the floor as if some frames were lost in translation. Everything is slowing now, it must happen soon or I'll be too late. If I cannot see my Snow White, what is the use of death? If only times were different, if only i could feel her again.

She is laying close to him, and he loses the battle of life as if she is sucking out his entity. He stills.

If only it was nothing at all.