They tell me to write how I feel but all I can think about are all the memories swirling in my head like an outburst of an addict just waiting to happen. And maybe I am an addict. But instead of shooting heroine in dimly lit basements with boys who don't give a **** or doing **** in an abandoned farmhouse off of highway 54 with the greased up girls from the stop and shop corner, I'm addicted to something so much more dangerous. Because instead of costing money or teeth or my mental capabilities, it costs the spirit of my soul. I'm addicted to spending rainy Thursday twilights tossing and turning restlessly under my laced flower covers thinking about how many lips your lips have touched since that far away time when you actually cared about me. I'm addicted to letting my eyes wander over old journal entries from back when this all began, letting myself imagine every picture perfect feature of the devastating war that ravaged my heart. I'm addicted to spending hours mouthing all of the poisoned syllables you breathed into my lungs before every letter and feeling burnt up into flames of gasoline. Before all of those silly, stupid ashes clogged up my throat just enough to silence the sobs of missing you. I'm addicted to driving down that road you took me on, just so I can pretend for a single second that things are almost the same and when my heart stops in a worn down, useless church pew or lying in a sterile, old hospital bed, my parents will shout drugs or stress, and my best friend will cry ***** or pills or a drunken suicide haze. But the doctor will come into the room with his fake empathetic eyes and his white coat pockets full of greed-earned money, and he will say in his calmest, most detached voice, that I, was an addict. And I, was addicted, to you.