M is for morphine.

When the coke supply became scarce, and the placating lull of the pot and the Percocet and the Demerol built up in your liver and kidneys until it no longer placated, you convinced the doctors to up the ante. Ground to a powder, warmed in a spoon over a Zippo until liquefied enough to inject intravenously, your ingenuity was something quite remarkable. It is from you that I get my borderline manipulative persuasiveness, my uncanny ability to problem-solve and think outside-of-the-box. It is because of you that I flinch whenever voices are raised, that I wonder if others read abuse into my bruises.