Ode to a Dead Drug Addict
It starts with a quiet whisper in a small, shimmering promise that curls like smoke in the corners of this room Just one quick escape one borrowed moment where the world can loosen it’s grip
But that whisper grows fangs
Now my days are measured not by the sunlight or the clocks but by cravings that form like bruises pure and insistent on the edge of my fore arms a hunger with no name that feeds on everything you offer only to demand even more
I watch myself fading in mirrors that could never lie my eyes are quieter and my hands shake I’m just a ghost rehearsing my vanishing act one little heartbeat at a time Loved ones had all gone away but I could still hear their voices just echoes underwater
And still the cravings press a cold hand pushing you forward asking for devotion we were never meant to give
There is no glamour in this, only quiet wreckage of a life unraveling thread by thread Until one final trembling decision a hand outstretched trying to get a grip on the sun to begin the long and fragile mending
The road back is steep and potholed and slow each step is a small defiance Some truth stronger then the lie of oblivion
I am still here
