She’s not sure when she lost herself, but she knows she has. She couldn’t tell you when her birthday is. Or her mother’s maiden name. She can’t remember the face of her first love, or what she wanted to be when she was all grown up. But she can tell you the first type of drug she ever used. It was cocaine, she smoked it. She can’t tell you that at that moment she was hooked. She laughs when she tells stories about all the things she’s done for the drug. From stealing her mother’s wedding ring, as the poor women slept. From sleeping with the dealers, or just some average Joe, to get a bit of money. The woman she’s become isn’t pretty. Her once blonde hair is oily and falling out. Her teeth are yellow, and she looks like she’s dying right before your eyes. She can’t tell you who her daughter’s father is. Too many men. She can barely remember the child’s name. Was it Megan or Mary, it’s all just a daze. But as she sits there, in this roach infested motel. With a band around her arm and a needle trying to find a vein. She looks up into the mirror. Her eyes, there blue. So are my babies she thinks. She closes her eyes and cries. She wants to go home.