My choice,
my rebellion,
my freedom,
my shelter,
my crazy,
inconsistent lover,
my therapy, my treatment,
my family, my mother,
my comfort, my pillow, my blanket,
helped me cope,
cope without hope,
it’s how I did it,
my drug, my dope
stuffing it down,
my addiction, my vice, my master,
my boss and my captor
me, a puppet,
the influence, the seductive allure,
a roller coaster ride, a disorder to endure,
my reward, my prize,
my shield, and my excuse,
my obsession, my caregiver, my voice,
my happiness, my harbor, my net,
my savior, my escape, my drug of choice,
holding all the power, all my cards,
it was the tissue that mopped my tears,
and stored my hidden fears,
for what felt like a million years,
my excess, my downfall,
my spiraling demise,
my disguise,
my joy, my masseuse,
my goddamn excuse,
my abuser, and my abuse,
my naughty girl muse,
it made me giddy, excited,
it was my fix, my religion,
down, then up, in, then out again,
a junkyard of contrition,
it was my friend, pulling me,
it hugged and stroked me,
enveloped me,
it did,
as my cure, my medicine
my catch all, a dumping ground,
my pimp, my partner in crime,
my pleasure, my passion,
as it sucked away my prime.
On lock down now,
serving life without parole,
because it’s a mother-fucker,
a life slayer,
a raper of dreams,
a ball and chain,
used solely to mask pain,
if I could, I would have
shot it into my veins,
a compulsion, beyond bane,
a habit, beyond profane.
Food.
Just food.
I don’t think you understand.
Well, maybe you do.
For more poetry, click on: You, In a Box, Say A Little Prayer, Your Bird With Broken Wings, But A Tree, To Quietly Love You, Mother’s Heart