You Have Such Nice Veins

December 15, 2025

By Colin Katchmar

The part of recovery no one tells you about is the somatic score your body keeps. How it sweeps you under every time you go for routine blood work. When that needle pierces your skin, that needle is every needle you’ve ever loaded with coke and dope, penetrating every vein you’ve ever hit. As the memory floods your brain teasing every rush you’ve ever felt and will never feel again, your palms clam up, gut flutters, whole body boa-constricted by the utter anticipation that thumps your heart and chokes your throat. The doctor asks which arm you prefer, and you guide her to your right.

“You have such nice veins,” she says, as she traces her finger over the median cubical in the crook of your arm.

“I always liked that one, too.” You drop your gaze to your other arm, tense and untense your fist, and wriggle upright in your chair. Your chest clenches as she tightens the elastic tie around your bicep. She swabs the injection site, and you inhale deeply. The astringent scent of alcohol fills your nostrils. Chest puffed, chin tilted up, you shutter your lids.

This is growth—the growth you now know comes not from the unflinching stare, that voyeuristic need to witness this most intimate intercourse between steel and flesh, not from the ability to turn and look but not be turned, but from the fact that finally, almost ten years later, you can look away.