you are the eighth cigarette from my pack of marlboro lights i lit at 10:34pm
you are the fifth shot of whiskey i drink at a saturday night, alone
you are the chest and liver pains i no longer feel the sunday after
you are my metaphor for stockholm syndrome

you are the reason that i know how to type properly at midnight as the world around me spins ever-so fast
you are the reason why i mastered the art of scrolling through instagram without liking your post from six months ago
you are the reason every episode i had becomes less painful than before
you are the reason i no longer feel any pain from before
because i know you still keep me captive in you

it may be the mild psychosis caused by the eighth whiskey last weekend talking but i know you
you always come back for me
you always know how to keep me wanting more
you know just how to lure me back
even if you don't do anything
i keep running back to you

but now, as i puff the last cigarette and drink the remaining drops from my bottle of whiskey
i realize now that you are my stockholm syndrome