I haven’t showered in days,
and he’s always high.
He thinks I’m living the dream,
when in reality, I’m haunted by it.

My anxiety level is rising higher
than mountain peaks can reach,
and I’m not quite sure how much more brokenness I can take.

I’ve ran out of needles, trying to sew myself up over and over again.
I stare at empty bottles wondering if liquor would have helped the pain.

Probably not.
Nothing ever really does.
It walks beside me, even on my good days,
and forces me to hold its hand.

Poet: Stefanie Parrott 


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