My Heroine

I wake up paralyzed. Fear and hollow longing gnaw at my chest, settle in my stomach.

I think I’m going to throw up.

But I’m frozen.

I’ve heard addicts talk about withdrawal.

The shaking.

The crying.

The sweating.

The grip of just needing SOMETHING.

The desperation.

You made me desperate.

I’d consume you and expel you.

I’d stick your sharp words in my veins to feel alive.

I’d breathe you in, waiting for that high.

You made me desperate.

I love you became a hit.

Pain became affirmation that maybe in the thick soup of confusion and loneliness

You still wanted me.

Or at least something I could give.

You let me escape.

Making you love me, want me, took so much energy that I simply couldn’t think of anything else.

Letting you have me again and again while I went numb was the easiest way to keep you sane.

How can I say I’m a victim if I keep running back to that? How dare I pose bravery and resilience when I’m just a coward that wanted to feel something.

I’m not a victim. I’m an addict and it’s getting harder everyday to keep myself sober.

I know that you are poison. That all you’ve given me is pain and scars and fear and chaos.

Why do I feel like I need that to breathe?

I loved you. As fucked up as it was.

You were my hero.

My heroine.

My heroin.