Voice of Addiction

You whisper like you know me,

like you built me,

like I wouldn’t be standing here

without you holding my hand.

But listen closely—

I’m not yours anymore.

I hear you in the quiet moments,

trying to slip back into my breath,

telling me you can make it easier,

that you can take the weight off my shoulders.

But you never carried anything

except pieces of me

you stole.

You say you miss me.

I don’t doubt it.

Parasites always miss the body

they drain.

You say I was better with you—

no, I was quieter,

numb,

half-alive,

a shadow of the person

you were killing slowly.

You were never comfort.

You were a cage.

So let me be clear:

I don’t need you

to feel less.

I’m learning how to feel

and still survive.

You can whisper all you want—

but I’m done mistaking your voice

for my own.

This time,

I walk away.

This time,

I choose breath over burning,

light over lies,

life over you.