The Little Black Book of Poems: Faith

There are a plethora of emotions stained on my memory,

The scenes that cut before my eyes still burn.

They come in flashes.

Like that itch, you can’t scratch,

Like the nightmare, you can’t seem to wake up from—

Like the dream, you want to fall back into,

But reality won’t let you.

In short,

The truth creeps up like an aching twinge.

Tainted.

*I was walking a tightrope between my old familiar behavior,

And the life I thought I wanted.

Little did I know,

It was leading me to death.

The new unknown path promised hope.

But I didn’t want hope.

I wanted to get high.

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It was a dangerous time.

I was attempting to smash through a monumental barrier.

Impressive?

More like the reverse.

I was beyond the point of return,

Inexplicable severity.

My eyes brimmed with tears,

My voice cracked,

As I tried to suppress the lump rising in my throat.

I suddenly felt the full weight of my impending transformation.

A.k.a. my life as a junkie.

It sunk into an optimistic smile,

As I snorted another line.

It gave way to confused tears,

As I felt the oxy drip,

Line my throat—

Instant relief.

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I didn’t know then that the initial encounter,

Initiated a seemingly never-ending journey

Into a darkening chamber of horror.

All I knew then was that

I had sunken into the depths of my own secret hell.

In all reality,

I was on an emotional roller coaster—

Highs getting higher,

Lows increasingly lower,

And the extremes occurring in much greater frequency.

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They say your body is a temple,

I say it’s not so black and white.

Grey?

Who knows.

I was black and blue.

My physical sense of self-shifted,

Causing my emotions, intelligence,

And even my sense of morality

To drop significantly on my scale of priorities.

I’d do anything to not get sick.

I’d do anything to get high.

And I did.

Never say never.

I said yes instead.

This false sense of security

Made it all seem worth it—

At the time.

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In spite of my wishful attempts to better myself,

One part of me—

Obviously the more influential part,

Always succeeded in undermining my good intentions.

In the grip of an emotional octopus,

I became immobilized by an entanglement of tentacles;

Strengthening it just preceded my suffocation

With the slightest hint of a struggle for freedom.

But freedom means something different to this oxymoron.

The area that I had prided myself on having total control of,

Now had control of me.

They say pride came before the fall,

I recall,

Having none at all.

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I was sinking in quicksand.

I had nothing to hold on to,

Nothing to grasp,

But the fading memory of what was.

It will not be what is.

Because when you stumble as far down as I had,

It’s only a matter of time before you finally transcend.

One word, hope.

Hope against all odds that an answer can surface,

Solutions can transpire,

Conflicts—
Resolved.

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It’s a story of faith,

Faith in the those who loved me,

When I couldn’t even love myself.

Faith in myself,

Even if it was as tiny as a mustard seed,

And faith in God,

Who offers life—

When death is all that surrounds.

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xoxo,

macey bee

*i’d like to acknowledge the novel, starving for attention —my muse for this short story. thank you cherry boone o’neil for your truth and inspiration.

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