the hardest part about knowing an addict
is knowing them.

there are only two explanations:
either you have made
a graveyard of your own body
and the addiction is living for you,
or you are still alive
and living for the addiction.

we paint this portrait with white out.
we place it in a frame too small
for the whole picture:
only half of your face shows.

hope less each time
until you are hopeless.

I waved to you from the timeline
that runs alongside this one.
we made eye contact and saw
what could have been.‬

this infatuation follows me everywhere
—a ghost that does not realize it is dead.
it is still convinced it has some life left,
it is still convinced it is welcome in the home
you let it thrive in until there was nothing left to feed it.
it is still convinced you wanted it to live;
it is still convinced you cared enough to try.
the difference between our graveyards
is you never had anything to bury.

I still put flowers by our potential.
I still water a garden of wilting plants
that look like the first time you didn't say good morning,
that look like the waning smile on your lips,
that look like the hesitation when I asked
if you ever felt anything at all.
they keep withering
until the only remnant of our relationship
is a headstone that reads
here: lies.

my laughter has been waiting to meet you
—a withering thing in a hospital bed.
all of the flowers and cards littering the floor
couldn't bring it out of its coma,
but all you had to do was introduce yourself.

you feel like coming home
after spending so many nights sleeping in beds
of people without names.
you feel like a warm light
after spending so many months trapped
underneath a gray sky.

I never felt like I could live
in the sound of someone's voice,
but now, I'm realizing it is the address
to the place I've been homesick for.

abuse is a picture that I am forced to paint
with colors I have never seen.
if I draw fists into open arms,
if I sketch an apology in between berating,
if I fill in every empty space with love,
no one will come running for
the child who cried help.

abuse is a phantom limb
still covered in bruises.
white coats and clipboards wonder
how it can still ache when it is no longer there,
infecting me with their doubts.
sometimes it feels heavier
than it did when it was a part of me.

depression eats at my weight until my skin is taut,
boarding up my eyes and locking my mouth.
blame has found solace in this blood,
guilt mutating my thoughts.
my potential used to live here,
but abuse has a reverse Midas touch
where everything that could have become gold
withers in its hands.