I screamed into the wind so you can taste the agony in the breeze. So you could know that turmoil and pain has my accent. This is what the ancient called Apocalypse. Me. I stomped the ground to disturb the dead. I hate burying my ancestors. I hate burying my foundation. My hands tremble when I think of you, when I feel you, when I dream of you. So I have a new diet. Oxycodone, gin, and poetry. Poetry being the most devastating addiction. You don’t get to judge my treatment, my process, my me. You don’t get to. You don’t get me. So I chase my pills and verses with straight shots of gin, just to keep the memories of you from surfacing. But the hardest to deal with, is that everything i do, remind me of you.