My Drug of Choice

Pessimism keeps me grounded— not in truth, just gravity. I run on caffeine and control. My prayers sound like lighters flicking in the dark. Everyone has something. Mine is regret, inhaled like routine. I called it control. A way to shrink what took up too much space. I lost weight. Not the fear that I was still too much. Some lies, you don't believe with your brain— but your bones. We medicate what we were never given. Love. Safety. A voice that doesn't hurt when it says your name. We chase comfort and call it coping. But self-medication is just sin with hope— helium that lifts, but doesn't heal. It hushes. Still, I reach. Still, I choose the ache I know over the healing I fear. Because healing asks for surrender, and I was only ever taught how to brace.