her perspective
Her voice — A story from an addict
Nov 5th, 2013
I should have never even showed you
what it’s like —
inside the days I keep a lock on.
Sitting up inside a bedroom,
inhaling toxins from a grey bong.
And —
when the smoke’s gone,
the problem still exists.
And the outline of my smile
hides the little girl you miss.
And I’m exhausted.
Tugging at the lies to keep my truth
wrapped and tight,
underneath the phony ‘hi how are you’s,
I’m doing fine, I’ve been alright,
and what about you?’s.
My mother plays the defense
and the offense is the victim,
controlling the situation
with my manipulating words,
I’m doing everything but beating them.
Swearing on my father’s grave,
I’m being honest,
but this case doesn’t need a witness
to know how bad I’m lying.
Hypnotizing both of them
into agreeing with my madness,
she’s paying through our father’s sins
but it’s me who put the time in.
And then one day I asked her.
Why are you so sad?
She said it took her,
her whole life to comprehend,
that the only thing that saves you
from your feelings is to stay mad.
She’s wrong.
I try to show her this will end.
I tell her I want to let it go…
please,
and she replies,
let it go or it’ll kill you,
Dumping every-
thing onto my shoulders,
she’s convinced;
maybe something will get through to her.
I take a hit and wonder,
where’s the angel on my shoulder?
And I know she knows,
you can see them if you’re sober.
She counts her tears with experience,
And me, just another broken piece,
trying to put it back together slowly.
Revisiting every moment that has cost me.
My face dug into my pillow
and I know that I don’t want this
and it’s sad.
My insecurities take control,
trapped inside these empty walls,
and in the dark,
I can’t —
not push them off.
So I choose to sleep with drugs
that’ll drive me down this street
I can’t steer off from.
It eats away at my heart
and kneads its way inside my blood.
But I try to scare away my urges,
but they never seem to run.
They attach to pieces in my brain.
They burn into my veins.
And then my reality pours out
and I’m swerving out my lane.
I’m pulled over by a cop,
who just wants to lock me up,
to punish me inside this cell,
when he just hopes that I’ll wake up.
And its tough —
to be ruined and so hopeless
and these thoughts of giving up,
overpower my ability to speak,
and ask her to come and pick me up.
And my apologies,
she doesn’t want them.
But what more can I give her?
I can’t help myself alone;
I’m the little sister.
