6. I Don't Want To Be Addicted To You
As a child, I was taught to always
say no to drugs; shifty looking men
offering me sweets in brown paper bags
were hard to come by in our town,
so I was never on alert.
I met you in a darkened room,
the smell of smoke and something worse
lingering on your breath as we spoke.
We continued to meet, this time by daylight,
and I could never shake the scent that
always seemed to follow you. I knew it,
the way it clung to your clothes and altered
your eyes (your kind, gentle eyes)
made me feel sick to my stomach.
I didn't see the attraction.
And still, I fell.
I became accustomed to your taste, knowing
that your character could never be changed
I changed my own, accepting your habits
as though they were mine. The taste of the forbidden
always on your tongue, I knew you, you knew me,
and I became addicted to the sensation.
The feeling of being loved,
of someone being addicted to me.
And so, I fell.
And despite falling, I knew. I knew you.
I knew nothing could get in the way of your
preferences, and I was not one of them.
And still I remained silent, desperate to retain
the happiness in my chest, to substitute
the loneliness I felt before.
I was not your addiction, and you dropped me
to pick up a new hobby, a new pass time,
a cigarette between your lips, that scent
always there when my head met your chest.
I felt alone, but, I realised.
I don't want to be addicted to you,
like you are to so many things.