I feel them,
Creeping beneath my skin,
Breaking down my resistance.
I am trying to pull away
But they are clawing me back,
Dragging me back to the top drawer
Where the skeletons encased in a little white box are waiting.

It seems to be a repetitive process,
No, a ritual
"I've been clean for four weeks, I can do this"
"I can't do this anymore. I can't cope."
"No, I've come this far, I can't give up now."
"**** it all."

It is a drug,
Injected into my veins and swirling around my brain,
Metallic nicotine

The worst part is, is that I have these urges because I can't even bare the smallest thought of sadness.
I can't even go through five minutes of brief heartache without wanting to throw it all away.
I don't even have a reason to feel this low,
I am weak and selfish.