i tend to blame my mother for everything that is wrong with me.
the insanity and
insecurity
and addiction to temporarily filling a void meant for
her love.
My heart beats to the rhythm of her footsteps,
counting how many strides
i have left
to wipe away my tears before
she reaches my door.
there is no margin for error in her unspoken expectations.

i used to blame anything but myself for my actions.
i was a compulsive liar for 4 years,
a narcotic addict for 5.
i layered lies like pills
scattered throughout my room,
each finding their way into my mouth
at the wrong time.

i am the only thing that is wrong with myself.
i'm haunted by reflections in the mirror,
echoes of the girl i couldn't save.
i tried to scrub her off my skin,
carve around the edges and
crawl out of this body.
i became too familiar with the salty taste of bleakness,
a bittersweet over dose.
if only the child-locks on
medicine bottles
worked even after the child-like innocence was
lost.

i think
i want to be saved
a little more than
i want to be loved.

He is a gentle sort of love,
irritatingly fragile fingertips trailing down my side and
forehead kisses.
When we lay together,
rib to rib,
souls brushing shoulders,
i almost believe this life is kind.

He is effortless conversations and
sore cheeks from smiling ear to ear.
Sickly sweet messages late at night and
Constant concern.
I try to read between the lines,
Become a part of the dialogue in his mind.
There’s something masochistic that captivates me
entirely.

He is such a soft and messy thing.
I don’t know how to take care of him.
I would help if I could,
But he never tells me whats wrong.
I fumble for his hand in the darkness.
I want to beg him for a hint, but
that pretty little mouth will ruin this moment.

He stares at the ground when he says he loves me.
His name sits heavy on my tongue,
Each symbol rolling backwards,
Choking me a little more.

He closes his eyes and thinks of her,
While his hands explore every ridge of my body.
I am a reflection of all the ways he cannot love me.
I want to kiss the whiskey from his lips,
Kneel at his pedestal
at the foot where I bleed.

I am going to disappoint him.

addiction is a tricky thing like that.
i tell everyone
i've been clean for 4 years.
truth is,
i've relapsed every one of those years and
for once,
i'm not proud of
the things i've done to numb myself.
yesterday,
i got a whiff of the perfume i wore at
the peak of my dependence.
i gave in.
i don't think i really tried to stop myself.
i was looking for an excuse to fall back into orbit,
each day revolving around
getting my next fix,
not this pit in my stomach.

one time,
i took all the pills scattered through my room and
lined them up on
my childhood bed,
counting and
recounting and
counting once more for good measure.

the rattling of pill bottles makes me nostalgic.

i wonder who i could've been without the
sickly sweet lies,
entire lives buried beneath ignorant comfort,
if i had taken the time to know myself
rather than
sitting back and
missing out on who i could have been.

addiction is
living with the reality of rotting flesh and
damaged bones,
yet thinking of it as nothing other than a part of yourself.

addiction is
pushing the pessimism out of the inevitable
because
you're still naive enough to believe that
it won't be the thing to **** you.