Death of His

I awoke with a shout as sweat dripped down my forehead. That was a dream. The same dream I always have. How could I put the blame on a dead person? How cruel can I be? It's always the same guilt trip, no matter what I say in my dream, I can never get rid of the anger, fear, and sadness from his eyes. I fucking hate it. I sat up in my bed, reaching over to my side to the cabinet. I need my fix.I threw junk out of the way, pencils, bags, trash, Then finally, I pulled out a bag of weed. I gripped it tightly and stared at it.