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Birth. The Grave. Resurrection.

by Anna Frolova

This poem is about my boyfriend and his road to recovery from a prescription pill addiction.


Addiction is him feeling lifeless and alone in the middle of bustling family dinners.

Addiction is him popping 1,2,3 Vicodins in but telling himself that it's not as bad as heroin.

It is him telling me “if you had my DNA strands then you’d be like this too.”

It blinds his eyes with his troubles and crams his ears with countless excuses, guiding him toward the dark until he can’t even recognize his own body or thoughts.

It stuffs his mouth with clichéd reassurances of “I promise” and overused phrases of “I'm fine”.

It fills his hollow body with soon to be regrets, denials, and various poisons of deception.

It seals his lips with his sins and tells him that he’s not worthy to redeem himself through the truth.

Addiction is making him yell at me over the phone “Leave. Me. Alone.” so he could run away from me and into its arms.

It’s watching him get chipped away pill by pill while I just stand by his side and do nothing.

Addiction is the love of his life; it wraps its arms around his head to muffle the concerned world around him.

It is telling yourself that tomorrow will be better when you know it won’t be.

It is feeling alone.


Being the addiction is when he is forced to recycle the same lies over and over, because there are no more left for the world to offer me.

Being the addiction is hope turned into betrayal, and happiness turned into suffering.

It is him accusing me of being too controlling when he doesn’t even realize that its overbearing presence is tying his hands blinding his eyes and muffling his ears.

It soon lies down by my side at night and rises with me in the morning, eating away at my mind.

It is me trying to stay strong for him despite its burdening weight pressing down on my body.

It is me trying to help but only pushing him closer to the edge of the cliff.

Being the addiction is him wearily wandering through the day, but sleeplessly staring at the wall at night.

It gushes into every crevice of his life until all that is left of it is a lingering apathy.
It makes his empty body go limp, being the only life-like feeling he can turn to.

Being the addiction is weakly lying down in the grave that it has slowly carved out for him.

It is kicking back and screaming only to be smothered by the piles of dirt that it throws on top of his face.

Being the addiction is him digging his chewed fingernails into the crumbling bleak dirt to haul himself back up into reality.

Being the addiction is begging me to come back and pull him out of the black abyss.

It is being alone.


Beating the addiction is him finally listening to his loyal heart, not his poisoned brain.

It is peeling this infernal costume off of his body.

It is him coming out clean, becoming clean, and staying clean.

It is gluing together broken hearts and sewing back damaged relationships.

Beating the addiction is admitting the agonizing truth that has been buried for weeks on end.

It is blurting out that first word until all of them come tumbling down onto the coffee table in front of everyone.

It is him trying to recall his tragic emotions but being unable to explain his horrid actions over and over and over and over to the therapist, the alcoholic, the aunt, the high school friend.

Beating the addiction means potential relapses.

It is him impulsively dragging himself into his parents room and reaching for the key to the safe of pill bottles.

He snaps his arm back and runs crying to me as I comfort his struggling soul.

It is him taking Adderall before work because he still feels demoralized.

It is me dropping my life in order to drag him up from the ground below my feet.

Beating the addiction is feeling stronger day after day as we slowly plummet it to the earth.

It is him starting to enjoy things he couldn’t bare to face without it.

It is him feeling capable, clear-headed, content with himself.

It is him not reaching for the safe for a whole week and the word NO finally making its way into his blocked ears.

It is feeling alive.

Comments for Birth. The Grave. Resurrection.

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Wow, wonderful!
by: Debbie Wicker

Dear Anna,

This poem is so wonderful, THANK YOU for sharing it with us!


Click here to add your own comments

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