That’s the raw. That’s the latest. That’s the junkie still whispering “just one more time” to a ghost who never even stayed for the come-down.
Latest raw means: I found a new fix. Same shape. Different name. Same way she looks at me like a project, same way I look at myself like a refund.
Latest raw. Still chasing. Still bleeding into someone’s sheets and calling it home. Still writing love letters no one will answer except the next one who confuses my wounds for a welcome mat. love junkie latest raw
I don’t fall in love anymore. I mainline it. Straight into the soft hollow of my throat, where trust used to live before I learned that every kiss comes with a cut.
The raw isn’t poetry. It’s the text you type and delete seven times. It’s still wanting her after she called you "too much" — as if too much isn’t just another way of saying you loved at the same volume I fear. That’s the raw
So I stay sick. Not because I don’t know better. Because better never made my heart feel like a drum solo. Because peace tastes like medicine, and I’ve always preferred the poison I chose myself.
But here’s the deep part no one tells you: The junkie isn’t chasing the high. The junkie is chasing the last moment before the high went bad. That one second where her hand was still on my chest and I hadn’t yet realized she was counting my ribs like exit signs. Latest raw means: I found a new fix
The latest raw hit? Her name was a four-letter verb. She didn’t just hold my hand—she cuffed it to the bedpost of her leaving. Told me she’d stay long enough for the needle to feel like belonging, then pulled the plunger back and took my blood with her.