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 ***.

She was drowning,

couldn't keep her head above water.

She struggled.

Kicking and screaming,

she powered on.

Tried

so **** 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 ******* 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 **** 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.

****.

She wishes she could stop,

that she could be ok.

But she can't.

So she steadies her hands.

Pull.

****!

Blood drips,

and her mind is gone.

Such is the life

of an addict.