Poems

I wish you knew what I know.

I wish I could tell you.

It fills my lungs with lead, sagging in my chest.

Making every breath harder to take as we exchange sentences in conversation.

Unable to speak, but I know the words are at the tip of my tongue,

Stinging me, demanding me, to reveal my knowledge to you.

To you, I am just a child.

To you, I know nothing.

I know everything.

The empty pantry.

Not ever wanting to seek help.

Not ever speaking your truth.

I was right.

All those years ago.

I had begged.

I was crazy.

All those years ago.

Your eyes may be reading these words.

Thinking.

"Is this about what I fear it is?"

Yes.

You may want to ask for how long I have known.

And who am I to say?

I've known all those years ago.

I know now.

I know now.

I know now.

I know now.

I have the evidence, and I stare at it somehow.

Stare and wonder how it got to be there.

Taking my place as a priority.

Stealing the truth from your mouth, never to reach my ears.

Concealing a part of you.

The part that needs help.

The part that has been hurting.

The part that hurts YOU.

Now, whenever we speak.

Or I look into your eyes,

I cant help but wonder,

Whats with all the lies?

Why did you deny me reality, if you are not in denial?

Why did you call me crazy, if you know that I am not?

What did I do, to deserve your hushed secrets?

Under your bed

In a safe, not locked up so tight.

Has it always been there?

An accidental touch away?

Every time we speak, I want to say that I know.

I know what is hidden there.

I know I was not crazy.

I know I destroyed it once.

I know you won't stop.

I know you won't stop.

Even if I ask.

Even if I beg.

Because we have been here before.

And addiction is not new.

Not to the world.

Not to us.

Not to our bloodline.

Not to you.

And still, this secret is pounding in my head.

I just want to know.

What is there to gain?

Vanity?

Popularity?

Confjdence?

Security?

I read articles about your years possibly being stolen from time.

I look through the photos of you smiling, and wonder.

Are you truly happy?

Thinking of the needle going through your skin.

"At least it's not heroine."

My brain says.

A reassuring sentence failing to reassure.

There's money.

There's adrenaline.

There's sex.

There's numbness.

There's strength.

There's strength.

In you.

Placed.

Injected.

Artificial strength, and it veils the genuineness of your true strength.

Are you stuck?

Are you sad?

Are you willing to stop before it gets bad?

Badder than now.

Worse than this?

Thinking about it stealing you makes me feel sick.

But I cannot get past the bee sting on my tongue.

As it remains shut, because I cannot.

I cannot.

Because my knowing what I know is not enough to make you stop.

Because we all know addiction runs deep, and the intrusive thoughts are something you keep.

Above us.

Above yourself.

Above the many years you could have on Earth.

We've been here before.

I was crazy.

We've been here before.

I can't tell you what I know.

I can't tell you that I am not crazy.

Or that I have known for longer than you know. Or think.

I cannot tell you that I want you to stop, because I know you will not.

I can spell what is on your bottle.

I can read all the labels.

I can't tell you that I am not crazy.