I felt bad taking from her,
she might’ve never known otherwise.
We were in her basement
when I offered to go upstairs
and get us each a drink.
I came back and we painted
and wrote and painted and wrote.
I was on a roll, but she said I was stubborn,
acting strange. I stayed up writing for ten hours straight
and showed her my work.
She didn’t understand; she thought I had a creative bout.
I felt like shit for the whole show.
I think I should just let her know.
I feel dead.
Maybe I’m an addict and I’m sorry
that she loves and cares about me.
Because she didn’t text back,
I assumed she was angry.
But this is prevalent; I can’t change that.
It is my everything, my dependency.
I have a paper due tomorrow
and I don’t know how to get it done.
So seriously…there is a pill container
by her fridge in her kitchen cabinet.
They make me feel more productive, faster
and it’s worth it, as long as it isn’t habit.