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"The Cage of My Addiction" by Caitlin Ferland

Gary Miller

The cage of my addiction is not very big, with widows so small only an arm can fit through. Little like comes in, and the odors you smell are horrific. I only talk to those who bring me stuff, and to others I say “I’m tired; leave me alone.” “I don’t want to go right now.” “I don’t feel well.” “Fuck you! Go away.” I will sleep whenever I can, and when I can’t, I stare at a wall, or the ceiling, a drab color, causing me to focus on the withdrawal I have felt hundreds of times: restless legs, nausea, profuse perspiration, chills, hallucination, the shakes, seizures, gastric obstructions, “fuck, don’t call 911 again.” My enabler holding me down, not letting me go.