Loving someone who abuses substances is a love that lacks romance, but still maintains.
The moments of their sobriety are the ones in which we’re killing ourselves this time,
because we’re holding our breath.
Because before we have the chance to open our mouth again, we see you
going through your withdrawal,
the anger, the hate,
the hurt with no real blame but always consequences.
Nothing changes.
Loving someone who abuses substances makes you question
What else they abuse without realizing it. Or, at least, without admitting to it.
Television shows and magazines portray children and teens ‘finding their way’ through life,
when in reality they’re just another ******* crutch or pillar conveniently rooted
to a source that’s destroying itself, regardless.
It destroys us.
You throw the word down and out
Love
Wrap it around your bicep, constrict
Feel the resistance and call it
Love
Feel the blood stop and call it
Passion
feel the skin burn and call it
forgiveness.
Withdrawals are apologies
For being sober.
There is no room for who you are, when you love someone that abuses substances.
There is only room for the excuses they save for their moments of ‘clarity’ still
under a bell jar still
Wrapping plastic around lose particles they think will stabilize them
Or pouring a glass just to finish the bottle
Instead of themselves
All along never realizing
each pull tightens our ropes.
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 5:13 PM UTC
I started writing in second grade and couldn’t spell, but
I tried to be honest about how I felt that
the world seemed just a little too unfair to
consider God
really had the best penmanship.
Because etched concrete contains my family picture, now.
And a day won’t pass where you don’t hear how
somewhere else someone else is just like you but
also just a little worse off.
I felt it first in the floorboards
as voices gave a steam-engines warning.
The wrinkles on this page weren’t necessarily acquired over time
But through frustration from lies and
that day someone said to you things were just fine
when
I felt the splinters forming in my spine, digging-
I was holding
on to rotten
ply-wood, cracking
Fingers
Nails
Digging-
Breaking.
The vacant house now has a yard full of dandelions
but I hold my breath
as I force a poem
from rigor mortised fingers:
What doesn’t **** you
Will only leave you
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
I don't know where to start.
Where we started?
Abandoned...together..?
Not even together! Abandoned..
and cowardly,
we met.
No, we meshed.
We conglomerated
our debris
into a living entity
of
each other?
or nothing---
In the dark I misread
in your not reading glasses
the depth you inhabit,
No, you stole
no, you scraped
no
im wrong.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC
one time
you told me
there's something in you
that will push
and ****
until someone cries
until a part of them
crumbles beneath you
i remember this
spoken
the thing's you have said
to me
i can't remember
your lips but
ive had boys
who've dismissed my
nos
my
ouches
my
me
boys who held me
after
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
That's cute, I guess.
You're..nicer, when
I hate myself.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
it’s really hard to breathe.
I can’t eat anything, I’m starving and nauseous.
and I wish maturity was a thing
but instead,
i’m stuck defending myself
against cell phone applications
that find you affection
from someone just as infected
and you already have that low of an opinion
to believe
these are the kinds of people I want to share my death bed with
I wanted to remain friends
but I don’t think that saying
**** you
is effective
when
I already have
and when I did
you held me above you
and told me you loved me, I didn’t realize
you were trying to pull yourself up too
your own reflection masked
with my skin
this false perception
you knew
you lacked within
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 6:29 PM UTC
I want to drown myself.
And sometimes, I actually do.
I take all of the people around me, the ones I do and do not know,
and let them suffocate me.
Fill my lungs
with their scent
until there is no more
room for air.
My ears are submerged in meaningless
promises, hope
and laughter. I lose myself,
in the false identities
of those who move
and breathe
and live near me.
Who have lives and
dreams and
secrets.
I take all of those things
in,
I bury them beneath
my skin
and I sink
with them.
I sink with all of them. But I hold my head above water so well.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
and
I already feel
so lost
without you.
I understand the whole time thing I do think it’s for the best but I feel physically ill
ironic
considering contagion normally doesn’t last 1000 miles or maybe its just been dormant since we’ve touched
our intentions were,
no longer.
hesitant,
it’s not selfish,
caressing one another’s insecurities
with bare hands-
the lacerations in our skin were still too raw for our adrenaline to forget
and now that we’re crashing baby i’m sorry
it’s so hard,
dilated eyes,
bloodshot,
electric lights
dying out
but there is still a flame
I see it
we can burn these trees to the ground and be reborn from the ashes
too
we can apologize until even the sky sees that we’re blue
****
just listen to my elementary thoughts
and humor my wet-glue apology
please
understand
I still don’t quite know
how to cleanup my messes
but
you never complained about the glitter I left on your pillow.
I remember
the night
you held me,
as I was dreaming
of reality
and living
unrealistically
you
made yourself too tangible
when you touched my arm
even after the embers burned out and after it left its mark
you remained.
I got accepted into college.
And
I don’t know what to do with my life.
I don’t know
what to do
without you.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
My room
is a work of art
on the unvacuumed canvas
lies heaps
of U.C.S's
(unidentified clusters of ****
heaps that are only destroyed
during nights ... ... .. . . .
that are fueled with anxiety
or
just pu re
r
estles snes s .
These imperfect shapes
scattered
in comforting patterns
my compiled life
in pieces .
But I'm st ill restless.
The artist
is
never truly satisfied with
her
work
the mes s of my life
tossed comfor tably to the ground
until i am provoked by ... ... .. .
...
Each Article
I nd i v i dually held
Set in place
Stumb
ling upon
Lost object s ... . .
forgotten fabrics that
held you unquestionably.
a nostaliga
art
revealing things
you were probably already looking for .
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
Hospitals are filled with dark crevices.
The white washed hallways are flooded with fluorescent lights that do not reach behind closed doors.
Whispers reverberate off of the walls, reaching to the darkness, making it grow.
It pools on the bleached floor, mixing with the ammonia that rises up to my nostrils and suffocates me.
The fluorescent lights in the hallway do not reach the light at the end of the tunnel.
The space between the door and the exit is a vast abyss, and no one knows where they're stepping or when they have to cross the threshold.
We don't have any hands to hold, and the whispers kiss our ears with the softest breeze.
The fluorescent lights do not reach the dark crevices within me.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC