The first time,
You felt warm—
like hands on my shoulders
pulling me out
of my own mind.
You offered escape
in a form I could swallow.
You didn’t ask questions.
Didn’t care why I hurt.
You just promised I wouldn’t feel it.
And I believed you.
I let you in.
Again and again.
Until I forgot how to live
without you.
You were the only thing
that ever made it stop—
the noise,
the ache,
the weight of being me.
One hit,
and the world melted
into something I could finally survive.
I watched my life shrink,
choice by choice,
until all that was left
was the next high,
the next lie,
the next hollow nod toward nothing.
And when I ran out of money,
you ran out of mercy.
You left me alone
Empty
broken,
with no one but myself
and the thought of ending it all.
But the money ran out
long before the cravings did.
Withdrawals don’t care
about bank accounts
or promises.
They come like fire—
bones screaming,
skin crawling,
begging for your relief
in any form.
And so I did
what I swore I never would.
I laid down my worth
like loose change
and let strangers take what they wanted
in exchange for a high
that never lasted long enough
to forget what I’d done.
It didn’t feel like choice.
It felt like drowning,
like grabbing any hand I could
even if it pulled me deeper.
That was my rock bottom.
Not some dramatic fall—
just the quiet realization
that I had survived you
And somehow,
in the ruins,
I reached for help
instead of you.
Treatment didn’t fix me—
but it planted something
where you used to live:
hope.
Five years without you.
I clawed back from the edge
of the grave you dug for me.
I faced the rage you left behind,
the shame, the scars, the debt
you demanded in every breath.
And here’s the final blow:
I’m a paramedic now.
Despite the odds.
Despite your vendetta.
Despite the nights you tried to **** me.
I wear a uniform,
not to hide my past,
but to prove I survived it.
I carry Narcan on my back
and hope in my hands.
I race into chaos
to save the ones you nearly stole—
because I know how precious
one more heartbeat can be.
I see your shadow in every overdose call,
in every lifeless face
I try to pull back from the dark.
You sit in the corner
while I force oxygen into their lungs
And push Narcan into their veins
smirking like the devil I once knew.
And I always say a big ******* I my head
When we get them back
Because you tried to **** me—
but I became a lifeline.
You almost had me.
But almost doesn’t count.
I’m still here.
And I am everything
you said I’d never be.
