Addiction does not heal.
It sweetens the tongue,
then rots the teeth.
It pours fire in the veins,
then leaves the bones hollow.
It swears comfort,
but sells you chains.
Velvet cuffs at first,
iron shackles after.
It carves prayers into needles,
brands skin with its covenant,
writes psalms of poison
in trembling hands.
It glows on the screen,
a shrine of flesh,
promising love
but leaving you barren.
It stirs hunger without end,
shame without escape.
It smiles like a savior,
then laughs like a butcher.
It feeds shame,
drinks betrayal,
breeds despair.
Its altar is the body,
its sacrifice the soul.
It enthrones hunger,
crowns thirst,
and leaves you crawling
to the god that mocks you.
And when it is finished,
addiction does not heal.
It chains,
and drags you to the grave.
These words belong to the Dark Psalter, a collection of laments written in shadow. Continue reading the full series here.
In Luminance 