Cannabis Was My Savior
So I rolled another. And another. Not because it fixed me—because it paused the war long enough to count the wounded and crawl forward.
I sparked the joint
like I was lighting a warning flare.
Didn’t care who saw.
Didn’t care what they named it.
There are worse things
than smelling like survival.
The burn in my chest
was the only feeling I trusted.
Not love.
Not hope.
Just that slow inhale
where my ribs stopped screaming
and my hands forgot
what they almost did.
I wasn’t chasing euphoria.
I was hunting quiet.
The kind that didn’t judge me
for breaking in the same place
night after night.
No therapist reached me.
No god interrupted.
Just the dry taste of forgetting
and the slow fade of panic
into something I could walk through
without bleeding.
I lied to people
who deserved the truth.
Fell behind.
Missed calls.
But I kept my pulse.
And that meant something
when everything else
was slipping through the cracks
I learned to widen myself.
They saw addiction.
I saw a fire exit.
They said I was numbing.
I said I was buying time.
And time was all I had
to keep from shattering
into something unrecognizable.
So I rolled another.
And another.
Not because it fixed me,
because it paused the war
long enough
to count the wounded
and crawl forward.
Some people healed clean.
I had to get dirty.
Smoke clung to my clothes,
but so did breath.
So did tomorrow.
And that’s what I needed:
not peace,
just the chance
to still be here
when peace finally came looking.
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