The quiet is so loud.


It’s in-between the beating of your heart that I hear your intentions with the same clarity I hear in my own, and it’s in-between that moment that your thoughts become ingrained into the tapestry of my checkered past and I can clearly see past all the confusion life seems content to leave us with,
And I am faced with one undeniable truth concerning me and you that I would rather not get into, but the circumstances surrounding my apprehension is just more proof of the next statement’s truth… Yes, I know that “my love for you is bulletproof…”


Like a dependency, my body rejects not having you in my system, and my mind protests the insistence that thinking of you will only add to my addiction, so you see my infliction is self-imposed and the only outlet I find are in these prose.


But the silence in-between each heartbeat speaks to me mimicking your voice it so peacefully urges me to take another dose, and for the stress of not having you I’m forced to cope in ways I’m ashamed to say and these days just a hit of you is more than the minimum wage can afford.


Yet I take responsibility for my situation in full accord knowing that I’ve taken concentrated doses of you before my son was born, childishly hoping to move on without the celebrated tendency I have to take more of you when life gets bad, so I sit quietly in my own space waiting for the pace of my heartbeat to return some dignity to me, hoping that the craving would leave me unmolested this time and that this time would be the last time because mentally I’m down to my last dime, and every time you get this close to me bankruptcy seems to be my destiny, and in the chest of me my heart beats and bleeds quieted truths… That my love for you remains bulletproof.


But since I’m high off you anyway let me leave this with you because I need you to understand that no one will ever love your mind like I do and no one will ever touch your body without touching your body like I do, because a drug is dependent on its user and the more faithful you are to your commission the more I become an abuser, truly it’s the longevity of this tendency that returns me to infancy, and I can’t help but want to be fed by you and held by you to be critiqued by you when I confide in you.


Like the Constitution these self-evident truths do more than just expose me to you, they force me to compare others to you knowing the measuring line is broken and that my consideration is just token…because I’m enslaved to the way you say everything, and I hold on to your everything even though I know that loving you will get me nothing, still my love for you remains bulletproof… Like my addiction to being used while using you…