Alex, The Addict

You thought someone was living
inside the walls, laughing at you. Staring
at you. Talking about you. You tore

at your face until craters bled. Kept
telling me something was hiding
underneath your skin, crawling with fleas.

When I woke up, found your side of the bed 
empty/cold, I thought I would discover
your body still, blue like the pills you crush

into dust and breathe. Except I found 
you very much alive — wild, sweating, 
and wide-eyed like an animal rabies-bitten. 

I looked at you and saw someone/thing 
else, pupils so dilated the moon could pass
through them. I begged you to come

back. To come back down. To come
back to bed. To come back to me.
You howled at the night sky, 

retreated further into the woods.


Andrea Lawler is a poet, essayist, and short story writer. She holds a degree in English Language & Literature. She is the founder of two non-profits: Keeping Emmons County Clean & Frankie’s Feline Sanctuary. She currently lives in North Dakota with her three cats.