i want to call you up,
and cry into the receiver,
drowning your thoughts with my tears.
all you need to do listen.

i told you that i hope drugs are loving you the way i never will.
drugs don't love, though. (not the way i can, at least.)
drugs constantly consume.
they take your mind,
your body,
your rationality,
your love,
yourself,
and they also took me away from you.

drugs are parasitic, my dear.
sick, twisted, soul-******* beings.
they make you believe that you want them,
that you need them,
and they also lie about their destructive aftermath.
they don't tell you how your nose will slowly disintegrate,
how your lungs will make suitable charcoal mines,
how your brain will only think about drugs,
only drugs,
maybe *******,
but you'd only indulge in that after you popped a molly.

i was your withdrawal.
i made you scream.
you knew i wholeheartedly cared about you;
having that new support was scary.
i made you cry.
i sent you letters and poems late at night,
when your stars aligned with mine and created unbelievable wonders.

now your withdrawal symptoms consist of lonely nights alone,
pounding headaches,
sweaty palms,
a heart plagued with convulsions,
and a body that hates you for what you've done to it.
even though you still appear as a bright star,
you have long since burned out,
and soon people on earth will be able to see this.