Death of a breath. Every-time I take a breathe it dies. When your mind is numb like sitting in a freezing river, body hurting like a thousand sandstones being throw at the vessels in your arms, feelings hurting and scared like reading a horror book at night in the dark then getting lost in the woods alone. With every breathe taken is like a choice of living or dying, when your too scared to let go of the things that hurt you to feel okay again, but being okay to take a blade to the cotton smooth skin that once held every touch of love that was given. With every breathe is like needles in my lungs, and every thought is like the screams of your own feelings reminding you, you keep doing what you wish you didn’t do. When you drive for improvement in yourself but lose control at the wheel and go off the cliff that you once climb to prove to yourself that if you want it, you have to climb. With every breathe I take, I feel the sorrow I give to those who see and suffer my addiction of slacking off. I want rehab, I try the cold turkey quitting to make those and myself better again, but it’s like using an old needle that you just can't break.