I never realized that sobriety would become a personal hell.
I played with fire.
Hell, I laughed at the first spark
And as the days grew shorter I began to wonder
How many sparks till I get a flame?

The fire started and no help came
I lost my hands and eyes to collapsing beams
Yet no help came
I thought, maybe it would be better to let the flames take this home
But the ash and dry wall coated my lungs and nostrils
I screamed for freedom
For release
For a hero of some kind
For water, even a drop to bless my dried and cracked skin
For some ******* air
And as the fire claimed my home
And my body
And eventually, my mind
I grew silent.

The fire is gone now.
I can't feel the sun kiss my skin over the scars that encompass my roasted corpse.
I can't sing. I can't speak.
My screams are a whisper in the wind of a storm already passed.  

And as I recover my footing and senses
I am forced to remember what my own personal hell was
And face it

If I never feel happy again.
If I get a case of the “**** its”
and follow that red glow all the way to my grave
(because it feels warm once in a while).
If I walk into a venue in my hometown
and smell the familiar scent of stale beer and regret.
If my mom passes away
suddenly or succumbing to the passage of time.

That I’ll never heal from how I was treated
and continue to treat myself the same over and over.
That I have to rely on jokes about my grandmother
to keep her memory alive
when she is not.

If I let myself down
again.

like a drug,
i just can't get enough
the side effects are
this numbness.
the pain of looking
your addiction in the eyes and
being reminded of how
you first died.
but there's no more
a reason to relapse,
no more season for sobriety:
so I stare at
my human addiction
in the eyes,
hoping he's also
the remedy.

shevaun stonem

I hate sleeping.
I stay up all night if I can.
I hate everything.
Because of a man,
Who hurt me,
Who touched me,
Who took away my
Childhood.
He showed up
In people you may know
On Facebook.
The other day
But the other day was months ago
Now its October, and I can barely remember saying hello.
On autopilot but completely distraught.
And I'm sorry mom and dad, I'm not close to sober but close to home.
Close to home.
I saw his picture and it hit close to home.
I was disgusted to see what I saw.
I saw he had more children.
I saw he had a wife.
I wanted to send him a message but
I didn't.
If I did;
I would tell him he took away my innocence, he took away something I can never get back, and I'm bleeding like I did back then.
My heart hurts.
Everything hurts.
The debauchery of it all is he looked happy and that made me crumble.
That's why I fumble, mumble, also stumble into whatever.
That's why I'm scared to get sober.
Scared to get sober.
Scared to get sober.
I can hear the decibels because I'm always on look out for the sound of his foot steps.
I can feel the footsteps vibrate the room.
I can feel my bed shaking when I'm trying to sleep.
PTSD. Post traumatic stress disorder.
Trauma is the gateway drug. Trauma ***** up the way you love.
I need a break to figure out why I hurt.
I know this is one but there is more I need to unpack.
Unpack and track.
Unpack and get myself back.