Drawn: Poem by Sherry Painter

I often find myself in love with things I can't have,
I am drawn to them,
Drawn to things that are not good for me,
But I go after them anyway
I cannot seem to help myself

I cannot help but be compare to a moth,
How they are always drawn to the light,
The light that will eventually kill them with enough time,
Slowly bake them with its radiating heat until they drop to the ground,
Dead

I die each time inside when you leave me,
And I cannot help but compare myself to an addict,
For you are my drug,
There is no more lingering doubt that that is what you are to me,
But I can't seem to shake you,
Just like a junkie can't seem to shake the blunt from his fingers once he gets that first hit.

You are the hit I take each time you decide to come around,
I drag on you until I can no more,
And each time,
I die inside,
I mimic the moth,
You are the hand that helps lights the trail to my death
...