Sincerely October

Habit - Human

H words for dictionary poetry.

Habit
I had a lovely day today, the best one in quite some time, and as the sunsets I know how I could make it even better.
I have been quite scared, I feel as though I can not calm myself from a tense body and a racing mind, I have something that could take the edge off.
I am not myself today, I feel blank and gray, I wrote a few poems about my melancholic temperament, I think this will bring me back up.
I have a fire burning in my stomach, I grit my teeth to keep my anger from slipping out, I know what would make me forget about it all.
I had a good dream, I had a nightmare. The sun is rising, the sun is setting. I slept well, I slept poorly. Life is perfect, life is falling apart. It all circles back to chasing a high.
Every sensation was followed by something I took with the promise that this will change the way I feel.

Half life
Even after the drugs are gone they linger, they are a deeply threaded path in my mind.
Even when I know that this is not the life I want to live I still dream about them often.
Drugs told my brain stories, grand stories built on a foundation that was always cracking beneath my feet.
It is hard to express the nature of my addiction, but I know that I have stories from my old life written behind my eyelids, the stories replay in my mind, demanding to be retold.
Quitting is like leaving behind the thing you thought was saving you, even if it was killing you, it is hard to let go of something that melts the background noise.
This was my solution to everything, every emotion, whether it be elation or depression, was followed by a drug of sorts, I taught myself that this is what I needed, this is all I needed, and unlearning that has been like fighting my instincts for months at a time.

Happy
Today I am happy. I thought being happy simply meant that I wasn't living in fear or sorrow, but today I am really happy.
I know I am happy because I am on the right path, I am living in a way I feel I will not look back on with a sea of regret in my stomach.
I know I am happy because I'm not filling myself with temporary and fleeting elation because reality is not good enough for me.
I know I am happy because I can write honestly about sunny days and shining meadows, I can write honestly about my little dark age being over.
I know I am happy because I can accept life for what it is, knowing that even if it makes me uneasy it won't always leave me unsettled.
I know I am happy because I feel like myself, I am no longer lost and alone in an endless forest.

Harbor
The weight of what happened was like an ever growing pain.
The memories lived within me, like a sea of desperation in my stomach.
There was no true peace, there was always something that I couldn't feel settled about, I wanted to be happy but I was binding myself far too much to ever enjoy the sunset.
I wanted someone to see my pain, more than anything, it was spilling out of me, pouring onto everything, I  was bleeding out, although I'd never admit it to myself.
I needed someone to know something was wrong, ask if something bad happened, ask me why I am so scared, I'll tell you anything, but I won't.
I didn't have the words to express and by the time I did I was far down the path of trying to forget.
Ask me, please, I need to tell someone, I need to put this down, I'll never tell you, as much as I'd like to I never will, I won't entertain the thought because it's not worth pondering.
The pain grew, I wore it although I'd never admit it, I thought I would never tell, but I'd soon come to an apex, I would soon realize that this was going to kill me, I wasn't going to make it on my own.
So I told. I told everyone, I told anyone. I told those I had known for years, I told people I had just met, I told people who knew just what to say and people who left me bruised.
Slowly the thorns of the rose bush were picked out of me, slowly I would begin to find my peace.

Harp
The stories of what happened replay in my mind endlessly, they tell themselves over and over again, so I often find myself writing about what has already been written about.
Did I tell you about the time I thought I was going to die and I didn't care? Have you heard about how the drugs ruined me and I still find myself missing them? Did you ever hear about what he did to me, did I ever tell you what that was like?
The stories live within me, they have a home within my mind, and it seems I have to tell them before I can learn to live with them.
So let me tell you again about how I miss the drugs, let me talk myself off the edge of relapse for the sixteenth time this week, let me tell the story again.
Let me tell you about what happened, let me tell you why it's not like that anymore, let me tell you about change.
It seems the more I write about it, the more I write about my aches and what I am doing to heal the bruise the less it aches.