Feral Addicts Poem by grace mariner

Rivulets of silver make crystalline track marks as they flow.
I look for you everywhere I go.
I see you everywhere we went.
Perhaps you sheltered me from some greater evil...
I'm not so sure anymore.
Those sublime moments are frozen in my thoughts.
They linger to mock the reality that you set upon me.
Oh but you were my drug of choice baby just as I was yours.
Like all proper addicts the intensity of that desire became our Master.
Like any good addict you lied to me at the precise moment,
the one guaranteed to inflict the most damage in the shortest time.
You know the words that will pierce like an arrow, rarely if ever missing its' mark.
I've heard that self preservation is a powerful force.
But never as powerful as self destruction.
The foreignness of that which I planted felt like a cancer to you.
You feared the very mention of it as if the words would summon up all that you ever feared and damage those treasures you hold so dear.
You fought with all that was in you to escape it but my drug was powerful too.
Addiction is a terrible thing, like battling an invisible army of the most vicious and bloodthirsty sadists.
My drug was alluring, sensual, lush and could make those endorphines surge.
So seductive, especially when all you've known is your addiction to anger and fear.
It was the kind of drug that could make even a giant walk away from what he treasures most,
making them know what you always understood best.
The feral child, raised without protection of the pack.
Here is our common ground, the thing we both understood, the drug we shared.
And that shared intimacy in that confessional we called a bed was more frightening than all of our atrocities rolled into one.
You craved and rejected what you needed to have the most.
I craved and was denied what I needed to give the most.
We were each others most dreaded opponent.
The fear of those words, the longing for that touch, the gazes that foretold your demise in my green eyes.
Alluring and frightening, even to an evil giant.
So we craved,
and used,
and self loathed to crave again.
That divine circle of consumption.
And you devoured me with the intensity of your very being.
And I devoured you with the intensity of my passion.
Frightening things indeed...
monsters both.
The flow of our passion, streaming like those silver track marks, was not enough for one so powerful, one so full of self preservation.
You will always carry that oppressive guilt for considering their abandonment.
It will drag behind you like the heaviest chain that you must conceal from the world.
It is the role you prided yourself in the most and the recognition of your own potential failing made you turn on the weakest link, hoping that it would help you shed your sentence.
So like the best of addicts, you will rationalize,
compartmentalize,
externalize,
all the while justifying your own weakness by hanging the witch that cast the spell.
And as similar and damaged we ferals be,
I never lost that instinct to nurture even having never known it.
And you never lost your instinct to strike the first blow,
draw the first blood.
Do you really think my drug no longer rules your veins?
An addict is never recovered,
only recovering.
The cancer lies dormant for now.
But you crave it,
feen for it, and self loathe for the want and the loss of it.
What you feared the most is what you needed the most.
And like you, I am not cured of that craving for you, the taste of you on my tongue.
And like me, you will see me everywhere, look for me everywhere.
You will always be recovering from me...
and I from you.
We can take some comfort in knowing we still share,
that my craving,
my self loathing,
is as all consuming as yours.