Relapse

I committed emotional suicide that night. All night. Overdosing on the most potent drug ever taken. Two months of withdrawls and rehab just to end back at Step One. Square One. One moment of weakness lead to hours of relapse.

And now what? The bruises are starting to show. The slightest graze of my collar bone and the imprint of your hand leaps to the surface, aching and throbbing with a dull burn that is the only validation of what I would have considered a dream.

Living in such a way for weeks as to avoid pain if possible- now I’m terrified for when these hurts will fade. Every few moments reaching up to my neck, touching the marks as if they were salvation, not what they are in fact – the very damnation to a hell of my own contrivance.
For now I welcome the pain. It makes each blurred memory clear again, and for two seconds I’m there – your hands around my neck – your lips on my spine – our fevered skin slick with the effort we’re both exerting to escape this reality with the heroin of loveless fucking.
Engaging in an act so blasphemous to the nature of friendship that we have to be seven hours, eight drinks deep to even consider it. Both of us hesitating moments before the necessary sequence is set into being that will lead to me lying here, writing this shit just to cope with my own inability to get over it.

And as the poison courses through our systems, exiting our bodies, bearing testament on your damp sheets there is a pause. Coming down is painful, reality is cruel, and your eyes are not a gentle landing. There is a silent acknowledgment of what is happening and how it changes nothing. And so I spin circles in my head and twist your sheets into knots as I drift off to sleep. Your arms around me a false show of what is profoundly absent and how any attempt at escaping this relapse is futile. So I stay.