Poetry (2015-2017)

Withdrawal.

I'm on my way out of the dark cave with my very own light source.
But someone has blown out the candle and I can no longer see clearly.
The abuse once inflicted is now cackling wildly with due consequences. Leaving emotional scar tissue from the dependency I used to lean on.

The crater of emptiness that lays upon my chest, once filled with a filthy material high. Begins to scream like a baby, demanding it's fix whilst it's fists bang against my body. Feeling bruised and beaten, my limbs sting with pain as I restlessly rock back and forth. Trying to quieten the insanity child that wants nothing more than to drown in candy.

Waking up at schizophrenic hours, I want to shout as it taps my shoulder, reminding me of it's dreaded unwelcome presence. The darkness of arms wrap themselves tightly around my skinny anorexic waist. Strapping me securely to the deathbed of depression, causing me to plead for oblivion. Wallowing deeply into my mattress, the internal loathing becomes a swallowed whole.

Each day lingers on like the fight of life that has to be fought fair and square. I pray silently that I don't crumble to the floor and search for that little wonder. It's the mind game demon that convinced me of false happiness, a comfortable liar. And now I'm fighting back, desperately trying not to go crazy as I reach for newfound serenity.
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If you are a long time reader of mine, you know that I've written about drugs, addiction, temptation, overdoses and even the death that is mixed with the entire hellish concoction. I've dealt with every topic within the last year, except for the last one. I've come close, sure. But I'm currently battling the aftermath of it all.

The withdrawal from the thing that once helped me "function" through each day, ironically that's one of the very least things it did. As I fight my way through this, the damage I've done has become more apparent/evident than ever before. It's saddening to know that this is the result of a false comfort called dependency.

It's hell, and I wouldn't wish it upon anyone. Not even my worst enemy. So this is my own personal insight of the last four days of sobriety that I've had to endure due to my own past incompetence with living. If you are struggling with addiction, it's never too late to get help. Tell someone. It's always possible to recover.

This poem is dedicated to all the freaks out there who romanticise drug abuse.
Here is the real taste of the hell that you stupidly wish to paint ever so brightly.

Sincerely Yours,
Liliana.