you are addictive, but
I wouldn’t call you my drug.

you’re closer to
a bottle of strong liquor.


we all know that
drugs aren’t good for us.

that’s why you aren’t a drug.
your toxins aren’t obvious.
I didn’t realize that
you were poison.


you’re my drink, not my drug.
you felt so good at first.
you made me carefree
and warm and happy,
and you didn’t feel like
you were bad for me


...until I had too much.

someone asked,

“how can you be
so happy,

but still write poetry
like depression
is all you know?”




did it ever occur to you
that maybe

I’m only happy because
I took that depression
out on this paper,

instead of taking it
out on myself?

you left me,
and these poems
took your place.

no matter what I do,
I don't feel alive anymore.

but when I did feel alive,
I wished I was dead.