It is so selfish, feels so wrong, but it's what I want. Others find themselves in the eyes of others, in the breath and the touch and the kiss. Not for me. Never for me.

I am in myself, there is never a need to search.

Search.

My hands dive into my pockets, pockets of calm in a sea of calamity. Where is it, where is my calm, my bottle of soothing emotions?

There. Found 'em, the nasty little things. They hurt, they're vicious. That's why I keep them in the bottle, screwed tight so they won't hurt me. Funny what brings me peace, is it not?

The surface is smooth against my palm. The lid pops open under my thumb, sharp like a sudden intake of breath. I shake its contents out, three concentrated grains of serenity, each one a comfort, each one a wish.

I throw one into my mouth, take it dry. Drowing them only makes them fight harder, experience is enlightening.

I swallow. Swallow my pill, my emotions, my desires. So selfish, oh so selfish. My body shudders, my self is suppressed, that thing that everyone searches for lies once again buried under a cool rush.

But I am once again acceptable, once again that foreign man in the mirror. Once again that junkie that no-one expects me to be. That I don't expect me to be. No-one can see through me, inside my head.

I've granted my own wish.

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