I don’t need a needle. I don’t need a glass pipe or a crumpled bill. I need your thumb tracing my clavicle at 3 a.m. I need the hit of your voice—hoarse, half-asleep, saying my name like a dare.
Free means I can walk away. Free means I stay anyway.
Just a pulse. Just a flame. Just me—unfixed, unfixed, unfixed— begging for one more hit of you. love junkie raw free
Here is the truth without bandages: I have sold my peace for a text back. I have crawled through the wreckage of my own pride just to feel your heartbeat under my palm. This is not pretty. This is a mouthful of blood and honey. This is loving you so hard I forget to eat, forget to sleep, forget that I existed before you pulled me apart with your gentleness.
One day this will kill me. Or it won’t. Maybe I’ll wake up clean, indifferent, scrolling past your name without a tremor. That scares me more than the sickness. I don’t need a needle
But here’s the punchline they don’t warn you about: I am not a hostage. I am a volunteer.
They say addiction is a disease. Then give me the terminal kind. Let me chase the dragon of your first kiss forever. Let me overdose on the way you looked at me before we knew what to call this. I need the hit of your voice—hoarse, half-asleep,
I walk into the fire with a match in each hand. I choose the crash. I choose the spiral. Because even the withdrawal—the shaking hands, the phantom limb of your laugh—feels more real than a safe, quiet, unloved life.