Secondhand Smoke

Addiction is the cracked shells in an otherwise empty egg carton left in the fridge
It is the bed that can never hold enough sleep and suck enough whiskey out of the long stretches of sweat

Addiction is the floor stains that have been there over a week, sticking to bottoms of dirty socks
It reads like the same line in a book you keep repeating
making things like forgiveness seem like a far off destination you can’t afford the ticket to

Addiction is the lie you tell the people who are often too close to see.
Or maybe not close enough.

For those that aren’t addicted, yet love someone who is
it burns like a perpetually scraped knee
Kept with your heart and money behind lock and key.
It’s within arm’s reach of a shark tank that’s sprung a leak.
It looses the ability to trust, to function, to breathe deeply and let go.

The feeling stops returning calls, showing up to parties, smiling about nothing while walking down the street
because there is not enough rest in the world for someone in the world who is trying to live so hard for one person,
but instead is dying for two


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