My Old Lovers

The thing about drugs

Is that they never judged me,

Or ridiculed me,

Or told me

That I was awful

At all of the things,

That I love to do.

They coated the pain

Of this chronic loneliness,

And sadness,

That I have felt

All my life,

In a sea of forgetful warmth.

Drugs never abused me.

I abused drugs.

They made me feel different,

And happy for a moment,

And I thought

That I could unlock parts of my mind,

And sometimes I did.

But, at the end of the day,

I found myself, more often than not,

Locked in the dark, dank, and lonely closet

Of the despair

That is addiction,

Isolating myself in dirty public restrooms

With a dull needle

Full of blood in my arm,

A glass pipe in my mouth,

Burning my lips and fingers,

Powder flaking

From my bleeding nose,

My face stuck to floor,

In a pool of dried vomit.

After each blackout,

After each overdose,

After each suicide attempt,

I would wonder;

How did I become

That which I never thought

I would never be?

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