the river.

graffiti covered walls and men sleeping up against them, blind to the constant movement outside their haven. hitmen meet their targets, dealers find their addicts- it's all the same. we blissfully lather in the life we've been handed, whether from pre-adolescent versions of ourselves to what we have unfortunately become now, or from the first of the chain of events to the pathetic figure holding himself in the middle of the floor because of the last.

we learn to adapt.

the current presses hard against our bodies and as much as we beg and plead we cannot move. restless in the unchanging state of "uncontrollable", we wait our turn to be carried away. for some, that place is a deafening roar of imperfections, stress, and consequences. mine is silence. i do not wonder how i got here. it's not a matter of why God did this to me. i am not searching for someone to blame. i simply wait to move.

to know yourself provides the definite impossibility to excuse yourself.

the couldesack.

control is an easy thing to assume you have, until what you thought you had control over is suddenly ripped away from you. what's worse is wanting something you could potentially have control over, but know you shoudn't.

self control is something i was not blessed with the ability to willfully practice. i am naturally a very laid back, go-with-the-flow type of person, who see something she likes and goes for it. another thing i have come to the conclusion i fail at constantly is filtering these things; what will be good for me and what won't. it might as well be the equivalent to a shiny knife with no handle, that taunts you with the full knowledge that if you pick it up, there will be consequences. but how can you say no? it's so pretty. demented analogy, i know. but it happens to be the story of my life.

more specifically, my shiny objects of desire only lead to the same cyclical road each time. i know that once i pick it up, i can take the initial cut by simply outweighing the pain with the pleasure that i have obtained what i wanted. i carry it around with me, holding it more tightly each time around, until i happen to notice it's so tainted that it's not even pretty anymore. frustration sets in that it's not the object that i know is so pretty; i mean, i've seen it. i know for a fact that i have every reason to keep holding onto it because i know it's something i want. finally, after much convincing i set it down and convince myself it's not worth it; the pain now outweighs the desire. for now.

if only the cycle ended. without another shiny item to focus on, every time i come around and pass it, i see it and remember that at one time, it was mine. even if it wasn't, i got to hold it. it's like an addiction. and the knife, it's just sitting there, doing it's thing. nothing's really changed except your perspective of it, right? why not pick it up again, just because it's been a while since i've gotten to hold it- since it's been mine for the moment. the blood lost goes unnoticed. i mean, i still have alot to invest in the next shiny thing.

like everything that i seem to invest in that goes unreciprocated, the satisfaction of simply holding it, begins to fade after losing that much blood and going around and around. pretty soon, i have nothing left to give. it will take ages to replenish what i've lost, and i will sit and wait until i have the strength to once again reach out and succomb to the taunting once again.

and so it begins.

a drop of cocaine.

it's a solemn hallway to walk down alone. the echo of each step i take reverberates back to me to break the silence. i begged you to stop before it was too late, but my words were the same as countless others before me, and they were all the same to you.

the sun glares off of the sleek, cemented floor through the dirty window at the end of the hallway. each metal door remains untouched, isolated from even light itself. i come to the last door and peer through the smeared box of glass toward the top, dreading what i know is on the other side. in a hospital gown the same color as the wadded sheets, i see you hold yourself with your head on your knees. tears stream down my face as i hold back everything inside of me from spilling out. if only i had known what to say that would have triggered something that nothing else seemed to reach. the pleas and threats of what you would become only provoked you more, and all of the i love you's were never heard. what could i have possibly said? i know all i can do is love you and hope you come out clean. the torture i see in your vacant stare each time your body trembles melts any bitterness that each echoed step had built up, and i want nothing more than to hold you and let you know you're not worthless. you'll know what you'll be when you grow up, soon. everything will soon be back as it was 8 years ago, sitting on the dock, fighting over who could push who in.

my body jerks into a sitting position, my breathing frantic. i'm alone in my room, still holding my phone open to your text saying, "i relapsed a couple times, but i'm be fine now."

i hope you are.