Cravings Are A Zero


I m a little less unwell.
Today, I am 82 days clean,
from the pills that trapped me in a hectic hell.
I am believing in the meaning
of breaking away from the toxic spell.
I'm turning pages, collecting myself in stages.
I'm writing apologies, excepting the tragedies.
I'm repairing what I have broken,
salvaging words that I have spoken.
I am a little less unwell.
I was insanely isolating, nervously just jumping,
knitting knife wounds that love left.
I was murdering memories using numbing narcotics.
I was an open-table operation, a panicking pest.
Quivering quietly, restlessly raging, substance stricken.
I was trapped tremendously.
I was uniquely uneven, viciously vulnerable,
but I have found that my words are salvageable.
I'm repairing what I have broken.
I'm writing apologies, excepting the tragedies.
I'm turning pages, collecting myself in stages.
I have broken away from the toxic spell
of the pills that trapped me in a hectic hell.
Today, I am 82 days clean,
I am a little less unwell.
I could be seeing things that are not there.
I could be out there in a ditch somewhere.
I could be faking another smile falsely,
or I could be giving into the triggers that impulse me.
Right now I should be coma gone.
Right now I should be imaginary numb.
Right now I should be painlessly done.
Yes, right now I should be speaking cotton tongue.
All I thought I was doing was knitting knife wounds that love left.
All I thought I was doing was coping with drastic death.
All I thought I was doing was burying the burden of me.
All I thought I was doing was fitting in magically.
When I awakened in the morning,
guilt would be heavily pouring.
Bloodshot lies, internal screaming.
I did not wish to explain the bleeding.
But today, I am a little less unwell
from the pills that trapped me in a hectic hell.

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