One more sip, I promise,
But my sips turned into gulps
And I started reaching for bottles instead of cups.
One more inhalation I said,
But a stick was no longer adequate,
So I began buying packs again.
One more slit, I begged,
But now my pale canvas is dyed crimson red
And my drawers, full of rusted blades.
To have grown and matured all alone.
To have come so far on my own,
But all of that seems to have been for naught.
The nights start getting sombre once more
and my mind begins its repetition of collecting cynical thoughts.
A night of relapse
Brings upon months of regrets.
And I’m pushed back to square one
All over again.
