. .
. . . .
I used to
do it everyday.
I pushed it beneath my skin;
I pulled it out like the splinters lodged in my foot
that I got from falling down the wooden staircase.
I thought I was inhaling paradise,
when I was just swallowing
my own destruction.
. . . . . . .
But it made
me feel alive for the
first time in my life. So alive that,
at the time, I couldn't recognize the snare that had
hooked me at the bottom of those decaying stairs.
I refused to see the lie, dragging me
further into the depths
of hollow eyes.
. . . .
. .
.