For the longest time, I thought it was a compliment to be called a drug. That my body, my love, my speech, my eyes, were all like a drug. To me it meant that they were intoxicating – something you needed. I like the idea that I was so amazing you just couldn’t get enough of me. It validated a part of me that is broken.
I liked you saying that, even though I knew about your drug past. I know about heroin for you. It’s a killer. You spent three years of your life battling this demon, and it ate you alive. You shot money into your arm like it would bring you tangible happiness. You struggled with getting clean.
And you did! You made it out of the hole. YOU. You dug yourself out, you sought out help, you became an adult and stopped depending on a drug to make you feel like a human again. And sure, there were parts of you that were still broken. Heroin will do that to you. Even when you break away from it, it will never break away from you. Its desire for you burns too red hot for you to ignore. But you’ve been clean for three and a half years. You’re amazing. You’re a survivor. You beat it.
Or…you had. You let it grab you last night. You let yourself be taken under again. You drowned in the temptation. You choose to ignore my feelings. The pain you would inflict on me, were you to start using again. You choose to ignore how badly my heart would be broken. You choose to forget all the conversations we had where I told you that if you ever touched it again, I would leave, and never come back. You made the choice. You picked up the needle. You shot your arm. You lived in the moment, and ignored your life.
You’re a fuck up. I can’t forgive you. I refuse to put my family, my friends, or myself in danger because you can’t keep your promises to me. When you’re strung out and by yourself, just remember, you did this to yourself.
You pushed me away.
This is your fault.