I sip reality in bitter shots, chased by dreams that burn like liquor. Each swallow was a revolt against the ache that moved in before I even had a name for it. My chest stays tight, and I am in a room with no windows. Anxiety doesn't knock; it lives here, unpacking bags into my breath, tapping its fingers on my ribs when I try to sleep. So I reach. For something, or someone, anyone who feels like silence in the storm of my thoughts. Drugs, drinks, touches, lies, all the same brand of escape.
I don’t want joy.
I just want less.
Love?
It’s a needle, too. Different syringe, same blood. I crave someone the way the sick crave a cure, forgetting some medicines kill you if you take too much. But I take it anyway— I always take it anyway. I don’t fall in love. I vanish into it. I let them drown me, softly, with hands I mistake for salvation. They hold me until I confuse their leaving with something I deserved. And when they’re gone, because they always go, I don’t just break.
I return.
To the cold that raised me, to the emptiness that waited behind every kiss. Their absence sits beside the pain that was already there. It doesn't replace it. It joins it. Like grief calling its old friend back home. This is the cycle. The hit. The high. The hollow. And still, I go back to the lips that lie, the arms that vanish, the pain that feels like proof I existed for a moment. I tell myself I’ll stop. That next time, I’ll run. But I don't. I won’t. Because deep down, I’m not chasing love. I’m chasing numb.
And the saddest part is: it works.
Just long enough to need it again.
I don’t want joy.
I just want less.
Love?
It’s a needle, too. Different syringe, same blood. I crave someone the way the sick crave a cure, forgetting some medicines kill you if you take too much. But I take it anyway— I always take it anyway. I don’t fall in love. I vanish into it. I let them drown me, softly, with hands I mistake for salvation. They hold me until I confuse their leaving with something I deserved. And when they’re gone, because they always go, I don’t just break.
I return.
To the cold that raised me, to the emptiness that waited behind every kiss. Their absence sits beside the pain that was already there. It doesn't replace it. It joins it. Like grief calling its old friend back home. This is the cycle. The hit. The high. The hollow. And still, I go back to the lips that lie, the arms that vanish, the pain that feels like proof I existed for a moment. I tell myself I’ll stop. That next time, I’ll run. But I don't. I won’t. Because deep down, I’m not chasing love. I’m chasing numb.
And the saddest part is: it works.
Just long enough to need it again.