The Hardest Wound to Admit

Why does it have to be to love?
It would sound like a bad line, were it not so real to me now.
In my psyche, played out over the past many years.
No turning back since age 19, since the first time I ever knew it.
To love.

The crux of all salvation, of humanity, of our survival.
How do I battle a draw to something that is so innate?
Can't measure it on a scale or in a glass.
It's love, it's life, it envelopes everything.
It is elevated and glorified and sought after above all else.
I wish this were a joke.
I never took it seriously before,
but now I can't look away from the truth.

I have a problem. A problem with love.
Use it, abuse it, lose it
bend it, mold it, manipulate it.
Any way you can take it, I have.
Dreamed of it,
cultivated it at all expenses.
Chased it beyond repair.

Never realized I needed to watch my steps,
monitor the levels, and get help to ween myself off.
Let it snatch sanity right from my grasp,
gladly gave it over,
in the name of love.
Glorious, all-consuming, lose sleep, love.

Found the strongest, longest dealer I've known.
Took me so high, with caring, returned love.
Lost my mind when the supply was withdrawn, when the strength was lessened.
My god, I lost my mind.
Bent myself into every shape imaginable to get it back.
Damn you, you took it from me. That good stuff.
Until it wasn't. But I didn't care, I used it up anyway.
Every last damn drop.
I used it and yelled at you for it being gone.

So now, here I am.
Detoxing and cutting myself off
from this love. This love drug.
Except it's l o v e I'm talking about.
The everywhere, need-it-to-thrive love.
Like food for the soul, for the heart.
That's what it is.
The word most present on lips and minds and in your pants,
love.

I do wish I knew how to quit you.
I have to learn, I must.
I may not be much, but I'm a fighter.
I fought with you and now must fight this.
Grapple with the reality of this addiction,
this attachment,
this can't-think-about-anything-else-for-one-second
love.

So even though it was all about you,
it wasn't you, per say.
You were the dealer of the supply.
You didn't know what you were giving me,
how I cut it up and made it what I needed it to be.
A god damn junkie.
It's so crystal fucking clear.
A love junkie, through and through.

Must regulate it, cut the flow full stop.
Relearn what it means to know it, to use it, to lose it.
And not to confuse it with other damaging substances,
but this damn drug split my life in half.
Broke my heart and mind wide open,
a festering wound of fleshy wreckage.

Detoxing and calculating
the time it might take to feel relief.
To build some structure and rules and
12 or more steps from here to wellness.
The struggles and jokes, they never will stop coming.
Here's just another damn wreck to work my way through.
It's funny because it's not. Fake, were it not.
Maybe you didn't wreck me. It was love.
I should have read the label.