you,
you get me.
like a cold whisper wrapped in chrome,
a sharp promise in a stranger’s home.
you don’t knock.
you don’t wait.
you slip in,
like silence disguised as fate.
you found me,
where ache sang loud,
where sleep ran dry,
where love and connection died,
and nothin' was allowed
but pain—
and the desire
to make it stop.
so I picked you up.
slammed hope down with the plunger,
felt the fire hum
as it rolled like thunder
through my veins—
and everything went
quiet.
and in that quiet,
he was there..
in the burn, the gasp for air,
his ghost pulled up a chair—
like we were finally real.
not just words.
not in time.
just this..
this ritual.
this ruin.
maybe it’s grief.
maybe it’s love.
maybe I miss him enough
to hurt myself to get close
just one last time.
you,
you see the real me.
no mask, no dilution,
raw, like nerve exposed.
you don’t judge.
you don’t speak.
you sink in deep.
you let me bleed.
you gave me peace.
you gave me space
to dream of some place
soft and slow—
between the devil and death's
kind relief—
anywhere but here.
you left tracks like poetry.
the monster stirred
but i didn't worry,
didn't breathe a word,
you brought me back,
for seconds at a time.
in that blur, in that high,
feel the pull from within the tide,
i sing the song of the the needle’s rhyme.
that’s the madness—
the comfort in staying sad.
found home in loneliness.
a box of ashes for my dad.
you aren’t the high.
you’re the hand that held it.
the lie
that knew I’d always sell it
to myself.
time and time again.
o needle,
you elegant reaper,
you plastic preacher,
you quiet sleeper,
you stitched a father
to his son
in blood—
not bond—
and called it love.
but I will reach again,
with my hands undone.
one more breath,
one more run,
still, every time I wonder,
if the needle’s already won.