Hands.
The ones that held my hips at the dance.
The ones that held my face as we kissed.
The ones that held my own as I cried.
They held love.
Hate.
Happiness.
Anger.
Lust.
Passion.
Desire.
Tension.
My cheeks used to burn pink.
When you'd hug me tightly.
When you'd kiss me in public.
When you'd tell me I'm perfect.
Let's not forget when I'm intoxicated.
Not on alcohol.
Not on drugs.
Not on happiness.
Drunk on love.
Drunk on lust.
Drunk on pleasure.
Drunk on you.
Rehab won't fix me, though.
I could convince everyone otherwise.
I can fool my family.
I can fool my friends.
I can fool you.
But I can't fool myself.
I've relapsed.
Over.
And over.
And over again.
Why do I do this to myself?
I drink you in like champagne...
But I spit you out like poison.
Why am I addicted to you?
Why are you still in my life?
...Why do I still love you?...
