366 Days of Writing · Original Posts · Poetry

Day 66: Addict

It seems so odd-

little dots of ink, pressed onto a page

or generated on a screen, in pixels-

they’re captivating. My eyes rush

across them as an alcoholic drains a bottle,

but the only opiate here is

meaning, and the only drug is

knowledge. Or stories.

 

The words claw at me

with serif teeth-

sometimes a san serif draws blood too.

I’m drowning, spinning,¬†falling, suffocating, dying.

Can bleeding out be reversed?

I am that process:

the blood on the page, from all the pages, all that

pain and suffering and death pours into me.

I gorge on it- there must always be more. After all,

you can’t have a story without them, those

dark things people are capable of in the corners of their souls, the

things we rush through, hurriedly,

whispered in dark corners furtively,

ashamed of ourselves

and the monsters who walk in our skins.

 

I’m an addict, and the stories are my drug.

The kind of drug where pain is a gateway to meaning, and

we embrace dark together with light-

little black letters that grip the universe in their talons-

and me too.

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