Confessions of an Addict: Sixteen Months Minus One Week Clean

Reads: 44  | Likes: 1  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 12, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 12, 2018



Confessions of an Addict: Sixteen Months Minus One Week Clean


I am a child of sin

I turned my back on god at the alter

before I made it through my first communion

born from sin and constantly revisiting the shrine

in my mind from which I was resurrected

bathing over and over again in blood of the antichrist himself

in the hell that I’ve created where I walk alone




by definition is the isolation from others

abandoned, deserted, and detached,

yet somehow never lonely

because I’ve grown accustomed to the lifestyle

that comes as a result of the demonic being

clinching the appendages of my form

claws tempered ablaze with the hours of wasted days

hook under the meaty flesh of this body—a sacrificial monument

cauterizing the tissue before I have a chance to bleed

spawning scars which overlay rotten skin

the covering of an old directionless excuse of human


Now, where I come from

people don't really understand

how it feels to have everything dropped at my feet

and willing set fire to the bounty for no reason

other than to dance in the light of the beautiful flames

and for that momentary high from the fumes

of watching my every wish melt before my eyes,

yet too entranced to do a damn thing about it

so, I bask in the glory of such a mad possession of sadness—


Once labelled an addict,

the name follows in the shadows

for as long as I walk this earth—reaching towards the core

of my existence with its wispy finger-like projections

as the word itself, addict, and each phlegm-casted daunting syllable lingers

the air in the room becomes stale with broken promises

and disappointed hopes for the sort of life that could have been

before such a tantalizing name took hold of my hand

and lead me astray from the light at such a young age

teaching me to love the cold bitter darkness—

a place where nobody would dare come seek

the game from then on became just hide



Hide from the light and I’ll be safe

nobody will be brave enough to

put their own life at risk to pluck me

bring me back in their hand like a flower

and keep me on display in a vase

white and pure as the flower of death itself



The same lily that will be present at a wedding—my wedding

blossoming garden April

that I didn’t think I’d live long enough to see

the same wedding I close my eyes to attend

at night when I can pretend that I wasn’t exiled

to live a life of solitude in this purgatory

where I shall reside my entire lifetime

until my body will wither in the heat and I’ll lay down to die



See, now I live on borrowed time

a second chance always comes

with the price of having to stare death in the face

haunted with disgust at the very idea that there was a time

where I would lay life itself on the line

just to have one more line

to exist momentarily between the seconds of time

only living long enough to get from high to high,

but now, on borrowed time I have to figure out how

to live a life without getting high—remind myself

every single day

to stay clean, no matter how hard that may seem



© Copyright 2019 J.K. Wilson. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: