time draws the line. addiction through time--i never knew, but time draws it, the line.
i thought i was addicted to drink. i was not addicted to drink. i find that now, when i go for weeks without a drop of drink. nothing in me wants it with white-hot wanting.
and i thought i was addicted to smoking. i am not addicted to smoking. it is sometimes a wistful longing, a pang, the desire for smoking, but nothing like heart-deep, nothing like.
i was addicted to the cut.
and i am still addicted to the cut.
everything in me
unfurled down
that line
made in my skin, everything
pooled
in the shade of that upwelling.
even now i turn to stone
thinking of it, thinking
of loosing
feeling
in its
diasporate freshness,
its rapt white strength
of endurance in creation
and its blind red
result.