Addictions

The harsh reality is that I am not confident.

I am not brave.

I am just as scared as anyone else.

I’m promiscuous, not because I want to be, but because I’m too afraid to let anyone see the hidden horrors below.

I drink, I get high, not for the amusement, but because I’m too afraid to feel what hides beneath the horrors.

I push people away time and time again.

Because I am afraid.

I’m petrified.

I’m drowning in guilt.

I have left nothing but a bloody trail behind me.

I’m sorry.

But I know how little that means.

So, I drink, I smoke, I fuck.

Whatever takes me further away from grief.

The grief of lost love.

The pain of sorrow.

The searing burn of resentment.

I fear that I will never be the same again.

Whatever that means.

Whatever idealised version of myself that I have conjured in comparison.

One free of pain.

I know such a version of myself never existed.

A man can dream.

I pray for a time in my life when the weight will feel much lighter.

When the pain will pale in comparison to the blessings bestowed upon me.

I pray I deserve that.

Until then,

I’ll drink.

I’ll smoke.

I’ll fuck.