The Cling
It’s not always a needle,a glass bottle,a line drawn on a mirror.Sometimes, it’s the soft surrenderto a bag of crisps at midnight,the pull of another hollow embrace,the endless scroll,chasing the faint hum of belongingin strangers’ lives.
We cling—not because we want to,but because the weight of silencepresses too heavily on our chest.
Addiction whispers like an old friend,Her voice familiar,Her timing impeccable.“It’s easier this way,” she says,and for a moment,you believe it.
You fight,of course you fight.Not every day,but enough to call it trying.You stare down the craving,grapple with its shadow,only to feel its grip tighten,a tide pulling you underwith the force of knowingyou’ll come back.
And when you murmur,“I’m done with this,”She doesn’t shout—She chuckles, softly,as if to say,“You’ll be back. You always are.”
She knows the cracks you hide,the places your mind drifts towhen the worldfeels too sharp to bear.
Because the truth is,we’re all filling something:a hunger,a hollow,a silence too jagged to sit with.
And the pain of fighting—Agh, the pain—isn’t just in saying no.It’s in the after.In sitting with the emptinessthat no binge,no lover,no borrowed warmthcan ever touch.
But still,you fight.You falter,and you fight again.
Because somewhere,beneath the ache,you carry the smallest emberof beliefthat one day,Her tide will loosen its hold.
And you’ll learn to stand—steady,unclinging,no longer finding comfortin the weightthat once felt like home.
johnthegriot.com/poems/the-cling