I am satisfied, I am content, I am living, I am breathing, I am trying my best to continue onwards while growing into the person I am meant to become, it's all I can do, it is all that I am.

that's what he said to me when I walked into the white room,
sat on the green chair, and I listened to the sound of my heart beating in that lonely room.
"You have an addiction, Rachel."
"No..no I don't."
"Rachel, your body is literally addicted to painkillers. If you don't stop, the pain will continue to get worse and whatever is left of the lining of your stomach will disappear. You will be put into the hospital if this progresses."
"It won't, I don't have a problem. I'm not addicted. I just take them once in awhile because I have horrible headaches."
"How often would you say that you take them? Once a week? Twice?"
I shuddered as the realization dawned on me that I do not take them once or twice a week, but almost every single day in 800mg incrimates.
He looked at me closely as I stuttered while forming my response.
"I...I take...I take them at least...maybe...everyday?...Just a few though...not a lot of them..."
"How many is 'a few'?"
"...about 3...sometimes 6 if it's really bad."
I hear gasps come from my mother and my doctor as they look at me in horror. I looked down at my hands and fiddled with them while they explained why this was a terrible problem.
"When did this start?"
I couldn't figure out an exact date, but I know it's been a few months. First it was just painkillers, and then I switched to sleeping pills because I couldn't sleep anymore. Once sleeping became worse with those pills, I switched back to just painkillers because those didn't cause terrible nightmares that I couldn't wake from no matter how hard I tried.
"A few months, I think. Maybe 2...3..."
My mom and my doctor talked for awhile about a game plan to get me off these painkillers and onto another medicine that can help reverse the effects of what I've done to my body.
I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't.
I guess it's just another way I was trying to cope with the pain without realizing it.

We talk as if
Your hands have more wrinkles
And your eyes have seen
The world

As if
I don't deserve your
Time or effort because
You don't want to be seen with
An embarrassment like me, because
I haven't "lived"

But please don't forget
You once looked at me with
Eyes that didn't need
To see the world,
And once, your inexperienced
Hands were used for learning the curves
Of my body rather than illustrating
The journeys that have made you so
Cultured and wise

Darling, I'm so sorry, but
You've got it all wrong
As if you know what
It really means to
Live

It seemed your hands could mold me
into whatever you deemed appropriate that week,
while I let you do whatever you pleased.
We collided at rapid speeds,
and neither of us would ever
accept blame for the damage done.
Now, after the destruction has ceased
to amuse you, you've moved on.
You've no bow, and no arrow,
but always a target, nonetheless.
Each one always harder than the last.

In the end, we'll still be friends
bound by mutual and situational obligations.
We'll run from the awkwardness
and try not to drown in the depths
of denial, for a little while.
After that, things will most likely be normal,
because astronomically, grudges aren't my forte,
and you're just oblivious to the pain
you've caused me. In the mean time,
I'm nobody's girl, and if you were to ever
come crawling back, it'd be something like
handing me your weapon so I could practice my own shot.