Is this who I am?
living in silence between highs,
desperately searching for a taste of anyone but myself.
My mind sustains itself on drugs, my body on adrenaline.
And I lay in my bed, drifting in and out of consciousness,
never closer to death than in that moment.
Am I scared?
Not of dying.
And no one knows that I’m slowly deteriorating.
It’s my fault.
Only in my real mind in the depression between highs.
And my body rots from the inside out as organs cease to function- one by one.
My heart is the last to go, continuing to fuel blood through my veins
there’s no use.
My skin chills and there is nothing more to me than an empty shell of what could have been.
The ridged scars etched into my skin no longer able to heal.
It’s too late.
Copyright © Morgan Tate | Year Posted 2013