She draws a line with unsteady hands,
yet another testament of her
addition to another growing addiction.
The ink spreads along her skin,
finding the grain of flesh,
seeping over scars just like she wants.
She wonders if the need for things
could be just a way to push herself far.
The lack of sleep becomes addicting,
forcing her tired mind to push through the
tired, foggy haze and into clearer thoughts,
past humanly limits and into something far more pure.
The missing of meals becomes addicting,
that sharp pain in her stomach,
under her ribs that rarely ever leaves her these days,
leaves her breathless but clear.
And when all those painfully clear thoughts
become too sharp in her fragile mind and heart,
she pulls back and slips into another addiction.
She breaks capsules apart, stirs powder into liquid,
and falls into a sleep harder,
more sound than any she could reach on her own.
The additions like stones hitting her soul,
sending ripples of need, pain, truth, love
outward to the edges of her world.
Maybe she's just addicted to the hurt.