// entry fifty-eight //

23 4 1
                                    

7:00pm, the 22nd of June on a Monday

// opiate: he was my opium, my personal heroine; my drug. If anyone ever uttered the phrase that they'd prefer them less than hugs - well they've never tasted your lips, a sweet saliva and poison mix. they've never inhaled your scent, an intoxication in my sensory glands. they've never been in your embrace, a feeling indescribable so much so that, that's the reason no historian ever wrote you into their books as the kindest human in the world or described you as a heroic figure for all. i became addicted to this drug in him, and slowly and surely the high came down i became burnt out.

I'm 561 days clean. //

if i don't say this i'll explode // a book of poetryWhere stories live. Discover now