A cold hand rests on my shoulder,
Nauseating, but familiar.
Not long ago it looked very different,
It was my ray of hope.
Now it haunts me.
I want to walk on but its grip is tight,
I know I shouldn't but I glance back,
It's so tempting
A thousand conflicting thoughts, shouting orders at me.
I use all my strength to turn back,
And carry on as I was,
But its grip tightens,
It follows me, like a shadow,
It's hand always on my shoulder,
Watching, waiting, for the opportune time,
To remind me of it's wonderful qualities,
It whispers quietly how it will solve all my problems.
The words surround me,
Worsening my cravings,
Like smoke they seep into everything,
Sweet promises I once trusted,
And naively still partly do.
I fight away,
Close my eyes shut out the noise,
But it's still there, haunting me,
Whispering bitterly of how I need it,
Before fading back to its welcoming self.
It follows, silently,
Its gentle comforting words,
Constantly reminding me.