Ritual

No substance I ever used was abused,
don’t rewrite it.
I loved it.

Loved it like a bad habit with a pulse,
like something that could answer back
if I sank low enough to hear it.

I held it closer than people,
closer than sleep,
closer than whatever voice kept saying,
“this ends one way.”

I didn’t use.
I fed it time,
fed it breath,
fed it pieces of myself
I didn’t plan on getting back.

Call it devotion.
Call it rot dressed up as ritual.

I learned its shape in the dark,
how it fit perfectly
in the hollow I kept pretending
wasn’t growing.

And it never fought me.
That’s how I knew it was real,
no arguments,
no leaving,
no mirror held up to what I was becoming.

Just quiet agreement
as I disappeared.

So no,
I didn’t abuse a thing.

I just kept loving
what was killing me
slow enough
to call it mine.