Habits

You've started me a habit,
given me a vice.
An addiction to the burning 
of whiskey lips on ice.
Of blurred vision, falling words, 
and a lucky clouded memory.
A blackened silhouette dependency,
swaying slow, loose, 
stumbling.

You gave me something I shouldn't have,
something that will kill me.
It seems, in some ways,
it already has.
I let you break my pieces,
bit by bit,
watching each fall away
with every kiss.
​
I needed it to hurt,
to burn.
So that in time
there would be nothing left
but coal where embers 
had once burned.