I smell of alcohol and nicotine; and the taste of the cough syrup lingers on my tongue.
I don’t want to go on and do another stupid thing. I want to block the voice of my self-injurious demon out of my head.
Or else I would have to feel the horrible – and heavenly at the same time – yet familiar feeling of pain on my wrists.
We never change, do we?
And I thought I was getting better at this game we call life.
Or maybe I was getting better, and here I am tripping down from the thing we call relapse.
Can I really call this a relapse, when I never really got better?
But to be fair, I did get better. Just minimally. Or moderately, I don’t know anymore.
All I know is that it has been one hell of a roller coaster of a ride.
And I’m about to throw up.