The raw isn’t poetry. It’s the text you type and delete seven times. It’s still wanting her after she called you "too much" — as if too much isn’t just another way of saying you loved at the same volume I fear.
And the realest truth? I don’t want to be saved. I want someone to sit with me in the wreckage, not to fix it — but to say, “Me too. Pass the needle. Let’s miss them together.”
So I stay sick. Not because I don’t know better. Because better never made my heart feel like a drum solo. Because peace tastes like medicine, and I’ve always preferred the poison I chose myself.
Love junkie. Not because I’m romantic. Because sobriety feels like dying slowly in a clean room. Because I’d rather be ruined by a voice at 3 a.m. than be fine alone in the daylight.