Her hands shake.
She's terrified of this person she's become.
It was never meant to be this way.
One time,
she swore.
One more,
she promised again.
Once a month
once a week
once a day
whenever she got a chance.
She never thought she'd be this way.
An addict.
When did it happen?
Why did it happen?
How?
It started way back when,
when life was kicking her ass.
She was drowning,
couldn't keep her head above water.
She struggled.
Kicking and screaming,
she powered on.
Tried
so damn hard.
She made promises
to herself
her friends
her Savior.
She promised
she'd be ok.
She swore she wouldn't
fall victim
like so many before her.
But she's never been good
at keeping her promises.
(Never been good at much,
actually.)
One time
turned to
many
many
many
more.
That night
an addiction started.
And she hates herself for it.
Hates her friends
for never opening
their fucking eyes.
Hates one in particular
for never asking the questions
she should.
Hates another
that she loves
for leaving.
Because that's what it was.
Excuses for unreplied texts
missed calls.
Two months.
She left.
That's what happened.
(Deny it all you want,
but you know for a fact
you stopped caring
when I went batshit.
You know.)
Hates her parents
for pushing
so damn hard.
(Why?
Maybe if I
had actually felt like
the words you say
were true
I wouldn't be here.)
But mostly she hates herself
for succumbing to
an idea
a notion
that never should have been
entertained.
But she did.
Now she's failing at recovery.
Failing being herself.
Failing life in general.
Failing living.
Failing
falling.
Sinking into old habits.
Old addictions.
Her hands shake,
holding the weapon
in this war of self destruction.
It touches her skin,
and she shivers.
Fuck.
She wishes she could stop,
that she could be ok.
But she can't.
So she steadies her hands.
Pull.
Shit!
Blood drips,
and her mind is gone.
Such is the life
of an addict.