You were a drug to me, babe.
      You weren't the medicinal kind either.
                                          You weren't just a painkiller.
You weren't an antidepressant.
                                                     You weren't a Xanax.
                                                        You weren't ******.
You weren't even the good kind of drug.

                    You weren't ****** or **** or ecstasy.
You were the kind of drug that
                                           messed around with my heart and left my brain feeling clouded.
You were the kind of drug that left me confused and
                                                                               feeling worse than before I took you.
But I did.
Again and
again.
I told myself I would
break this vicious cycle of unscrewing your cap and
                                                                   hating myself for it afterwards.
That I wouldn't draw back the plunger and
                                                          force you into my veins anymore.
But I didn't.
Again and
again.

I told myself you
                                                would be the death of me.

Every high you gave me left me feeling
                                                                          lost in the clouds.

I might as well have been
                                    six feet deep.