Daddy is almost 60 years old now. His fragile arms wrap around me like a porcelain doll as he takes his last drag of his cigarette. He tells me it won’t **** him. Two weeks ago, my dad found my hand-me-down blades. I told him he did not need to worry because my addiction of the blades painting my canvas has been replaced to the deadliest addiction; loving a boy. Everyone has an addiction. Addiction is passed down from generation to generation. That’s probably why my brother has the addiction of letting acid flow through his lips. Mommy has the addiction of having a man in different cloths sleep next to her at night, And ***** has the addiction of letting her boyfriend leave black and blue “love marks” all over her body, and yet she still has the audacity to say that she loves him. I met a boy today that told me his addiction was needle, I asked him how. He told me that it comes as natural as you need to drink water and his arms were marked up with pinpoint bumps like hills but despite the green they were purple and blue leading up to his shoulders, then I saw one on his neck. But this one seemed different, it seemed like a rope was strangling him and up above was a branch of hope flowing down the drain, because his opportunities were caged in a non-existent box.