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Is the number of pills she takes to feel whole, because when her veins aren’t numb and her head is still spinning she doesn’t feel human.
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Are the nights she gave up being with her friends to the little blue capsules that held her happiness, because memories didn’t matter if the taste of sobriety was on her tongue.
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Where the weeks that past, filling with more lies of i’m clean… But still calling the pharmacy to say “but you don’t understand I- … He needs more”
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Are the nights the spends counting them out, are the nights she spends passing out for twenty hours because being a wake is a crime in her mind.
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Are the times she tries to convince her friends… “I’m clean” she says… But she balances the pill as the breath falters in her lungs.. “Okay” she mumbles. “Maybe just one”