Truth

What's my truth?

The truth that comes at 4:00 a.m. in the bathroom reflection?

My shameful truth?

In short . . . . I'm an addict.

No better than someone who can't pass up a drink or a hit.

A fucking, strung out junkie.

Only, it's you.  You are my drug of choice.  The bottle I cling to.  The poison that burns my veins.

And like any other drug, in the noonday sun it's not appealing.  Rough, ugly, humiliating and disgusting.

But in a moon-darkened alley, a black velvet hallway, tangled bed clothes . . .

 I am powerless to refuse.

I would drag myself through broken whiskey bottles just to be with you.  Throw away all my wins, to waste my kiss on your lips.

I give it all up for someone who doesn't love me, doesn't think I'm beautiful, doesn't even want to best for me.

Yep, a strung out junkie.

That's my truth.

Yeah, I didn't think you really wanted to know.