The way I find several ounces of solace in a little cup of paper,
filled with luscious intertwined black aromas.
While eyes are burning, head turning and every inch of flesh and bit of bone,
pulsating with aching discomfort.
Warming hands almost to the point of burning.
And that I keep finding myself clutching my teeth on things,
because I like the fact that it gives me something to hold on to.
A feeling of belonging.
A grip.
