Inheritance

A reflection on addiction, attachment, incarceration, and the quiet weight of surviving.

It began without warning.
That’s how most things do
when they plan to stay.

Fire already inside me.
Air thick with aftermath.
Hands shaking.
Reasons with names.

You pulled me out
before I understood
what was burning
and what would follow.

You called it love.
I leaned into you
because with you
it felt lighter
than standing alone
in the wreckage.

By then,
the drugs weren’t a choice.
They were inheritance.
Passed to me
by the person
you rescued me from.

A debt
I never agreed to
but paid anyway.

My body learned addiction
before I relearned safety.
My hands learned shaking
before they learned to rest.

You saw it.
You loved me.
While I was choosing survival,
you were slowly
making room
for a life without me.

Things changed.

Not suddenly.
Not cleanly.

You were still there.
Just less.

You came back later.
Close enough
to reopen what hadn’t healed.
Not close enough
to stay.

I learned the shape
of loving someone
half here,
half gone.

Then the doors closed.
Metal.
Final.

You became distance.
A number.
A voice
allowed at certain hours.

I stayed free
and learned how heavy freedom is
when it carries
everything alone.

I grieved you
while you were still alive.
I grieved us
while you still answered.

This isn’t a story
about villains.

It’s about damage
moving through people.

I survived.

But that’s not the same
as being spared.