I am not comfortable with who I am,
And I am no closer to accepting it.

Just because I smile doesn’t mean I’m okay,
Maybe I’m just good at keeping secrets.

You see this is why I am not comfortable,
I lie and lie and lie.

I am not comfortable with who I am,
And I am no closer to accepting it.

I tried to save me but I failed,
And just like everyone else I left me.

Now I am nothing,
And maybe this nothing is my comfortable.

veins are blue till they run dry
we've lived this time through
spilt but still new.
mirror's dusted but still shines
but the reflection's not the same.
do you even know my name?
I can't smile but you understand
that I cry when you hold my hand
and you hold me anyway.
I tell you how we'll see them all die
that freedom is what it feels like
when you lose every thing
we are alone
as we drive by the familiar face
and we are alone
set fire to the only place
and we are alone
I felt safe as the years collected on the highway.
and we are alone
as we danced under the stars of the graveyard
but we have yet to be free.
we walk through the woods past where we belong
all warmth gone.
seems as though the prints in the snow
were already made.
sleep has called
but we can't hear
because we are here.
I can't smile but you can tell by the look in my eye
that there is something finally lit inside
it's been so long since I could speak.
I've seen every thing torn away
and you were the only one
that promised to stay.
could you be the one to save me?

The dress I bought to wear today was covered in daisies when I put it on this morning. Now the daisies have all withered away. Shriveled up into black seams. In the car, I curled my hair and placed pressed powder upon my face. Later I added wings to the corners of my eyes, and when I cried;  the spots that were left behind reminded me of birds hanging from a tree. Little ropes wrapped around their necks.
For a long while, I sat next to a roasting fire. My feet against grey brick. An anger in my gut swelling. I stared into a flame as it crackled and hissed at me. Took tiny sips of whiskey and swore to never speak your name again. They passed the bottle around, and when it reached me I looked at it wildly and took a swig. Counted bubbles; one, two, three.
They asked me. On repeat like a broken record. "Is he coming?" I didn't know what to say. Goosebumps covered my entire body. I felt silly. Oh so silly.

dark rinsed veins
drain to the brain,
a throbbing tiredness
drives me to well up
hide against the wall
refrigerator buzz,
paper towel
covering a runny nose  
in case someone walks in
ignorance, a few feet away.
paunchy eyes; silk streams
glistening onto chewed up finger nails,
a silent sort of death
unnoticeable
serene,
as I clutch my mouth and the kitchen counter top.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about using every day.
I have dreams about those little yellow pills,
they don't speak to me,
or appear any different than they are in reality,
I just dream about holding them in my hands.

I couldn't do it,
recreational drug use.
I never could
no matter how many times I told myself I wasn't addicted, the truth remained
that I was.
I would tell myself "what kind of ******* is a drug addict, you're not, you're fine."
But I wasn't.
And everyday I have to tell myself "no, you cannot take those pills because you will not be able to stop"
Some days it ends there,
others I get as far as dialing my dealer's number.
Most days it's in the middle.

Being an addict is about having habits;
wake up, take three, (don't eat breakfast, the high will fade faster). Take four once the feeling leaves your legs, and four more before you go to sleep, so you can sleep.
Rinse and repeat; rinse and repeat.

Sobriety is the same way;
wake up, convince your self you don't need it.
Rinse and repeat as needed.

She helps, but she can't replace my addiction.
Although she gets me high, I can't become addicted to her, her lips do not have opiates hidden within,
but they have something better.

I don't think about getting high when I'm with her.
The high I get from her kisses is not dissimilar to that of methodone,
only their is no crash.
The high I get from caressing her thighs shares a likeness with *******,
except it costs love, not cash.
The high I get from hearing her gasp my name as our love making intensifies is very similar to that of hydrocodone,

only much, much better.