My body craves sleep like an addict on multiple substances.
Depressed people and addicts are not expected to grieve,
even when they experience the urge to die
or to shove poison into their systems,
but we grieve the dead,
and that's funny.
Addicts are bred, I think,
from serial instances of loss.
Addiction becomes you
when you find several ways to self-sabotage the only good part you have.
I think, my addiction would be books.
I am addicted to sleep, just like
I am addicted to certain characters in books
who are addicted to success.
I might be addicted to death,
but death doesn’t want me,
so I obsess over it in the hope that
death might get addicted to me.
And maybe that’s why life got so angry with me
and is now throwing a temper tantrum,
as it taught my body to recognize my blood as a foreign object,
so, instead of protecting me,
my body is now destroying itself,
and that’s okay.
Oh, and strawberries, I am addicted to strawberries, and hope.
I am addicted to hope
the same way I am addicted to pain,
and it doesn’t make sense,
but that’s okay too.
Grief is an amputation, but hope is incurable hemophilia.
You bleed
and bleed
and bleed
until there’s nothing left,
one by one.