A relapse is not a pretty thing.

As I finally pick up pen and paper
or at least set my fingers fluttering over the keys again,
I have no victory to report.

Medicine has saturated my mind and whisked so much away
acid dissolving the Munich, the Skin Man, the Stalker, and Others...
But as is often the case
when I cast off one
I fall to another

My nights
I sleep well
because I've spent the day pacing, sobbing, wringing my hands
back to where I was before the fear set in
back to where I've always been.

A relapse is
that one drop of cold water
that hits between your shoulder blades
while you take a hot shower
a constant reminder
of the the guilty thing you were

A tiny, tiny vine
snakes across my shoulder
where all of my t shirts and tank tops cover
but even I can see