I keep telling myself that I know better.
I know that I have an addict in me.
I know that I fear change like I fear my own mind,
or the shadows in my room that move in strange ways.
I tell myself that I know when to stop.
That I can stop.
One cigarette becomes four.
Four shots become eight.
Eight bumps become twelve.
The night is still young, but the shadows are starting to creep in already.
My mind going somewhere I cannot follow.
Echoing voices, strange sounds, and aching pains.
I feel weightless, I feel heavy.
I'm falling, I'm floating.
Is this the drugs talking?
Is it even real?
Am I real?
Sober me tells me that I'm insane.
Intoxicated me agrees.
Does the smell of cigarettes still make you nauseous?
Does the sight of white powder still make you cry?
Does Whiskey still taste bitter?
Gag a little and smile through the burning throat,
because you want him to think you're brave.
A mistake you made before you even knew what mistakes were.
You wanted to grow up to be just like him, and now I fear you are.
YOU ARE READING
The diary of Seth Alexander
Non-Fictionas the title suggests, this is legit going to be my diary. and yes, most diaries are supposed to be secret, but I have always been an open book. I like to pretend to be mysterious, but the people around me will all tell you that I am am someone who...
