I—
…
I’m—
No.
Don’t make me say it like that.
Don’t make it sound clean.
It ain’t clean.
It’s jagged teeth and shaking hands,
it’s swallowing shame like it’s holy water
and still feeling cursed.
I’m—
…
God, it sticks in my throat
like a confession I never wanted to make,
like a sin I didn’t know I was committing
until I was already on my knees for it.
I’m an addict.
There.
I said it—
but it didn’t come out right.
It came out cracked,
like glass under pressure,
like something breaking instead of healing.
Because I don’t chase chaos—
I chase feeling better.
And isn’t that twisted?
Isn’t that the cruelest joke?
I didn’t wake up one day and say
“Let me ruin myself.”
No—
I said,
“Let me breathe.”
Just once.
Just a little easier.
Just a little quieter in my head.
But quiet became hunger.
Hunger became need.
Need became chains dressed up like comfort.
And now—
now I reach for relief
like it’s oxygen
and I’m drowning in a room full of air.
I’m an addict.
Say it louder.
No—
I can’t.
Because louder makes it real,
and real means I gotta look at myself
without excuses,
without poetry,
without pretty lies to soften the edges.
I’m addicted to not hurting.
Addicted to escape routes.
Addicted to anything that whispers,
“Hey… you don’t have to feel this right now.”
And I listen.
Every.
Damn.
Time.
Even when I know
it’s a thief dressed like a savior.
Even when I know
it’s digging deeper holes
while handing me a ladder made of smoke.
I hate it.
God, I fucking hate it.
But I love the silence it gives me
for just a second—
that dangerous, beautiful second
where I’m not drowning in myself.
Do you understand that war?
To crave the thing
that’s killing you—
because it also feels like
the only thing keeping you alive?
I’m—
…
I’m an addict.
And it feels like confessing
to wanting peace
the wrong way.
Like my soul learned
a shortcut
and now it don’t know how
to take the long road home.
But listen—
listen close—
This ain’t me giving up.
This is me
dragging the truth into the light
kicking and screaming,
blood on its teeth,
voice shaking like a storm about to break—
because maybe…
maybe if I can say it
without choking on it…
maybe I can start
learning how to live
without needing it.
I’m an addict.
And I’m still here.
…
Trying
to say it
without disappearing.