"Ode to the Puffer Fish," a poem

When you stopped pumping yourself with poison,

you started pumping iron.

You spent hours every day

buckling beneath the weight of your mistakes,

sweating out the shame,

and it worked.

You perspired yourself clean,

and you grew and you grew and you grew

until you were so enormous that

no predator could ever

swallow you whole

and survive it.

You were so resilient

and we all thought you had won,

but you clutched your 18-month chip

so tightly, like you knew

it would slip through your fingers eventually—

everything good always does.

You quit going to meetings

when you no longer had to piss in a cup.

You thought you could do it all on your own,

but then you shrunk and you shrunk and you shrunk

until you were a shell of yourself.

A limp balloon that

sunk and sunk and sunk

until you were lifeless,

weightless,

draped over the wreckage

with pinned pupils and yellowed skin.

I know you tried.

The last time we spoke,

you were so thrilled

to have a clean record again,

to lay your past to rest.

You were so ready to shed

that blue collar that

never really fit you right

and to finally use your English degree.

But opiates will rob you

of everything you own,

until all that's left to pawn is your soul,

and you’ll part with it for mere pennies.

Listen—

there is still strength in you,

though it may lie dormant.

There is still a heartbeat,

despite your best attempts to stop it.

Please don't give up.