But maybe it’s the cure

I drink like I’m trying to kill something inside me,
chipping away at it day by day,
unhooking its claws from my soft, internal flesh,
and occasionally bludgeoning its viral stranglehold
with a night of seppukurian abandon;
choosing for myself the most delectable,
grandiose of weapons
with which to cut me core to core.

I wish only to feel better,
to be free of that incessant writhing;
thick chains and dark anchors,
not weighing me down,
but suffocating me in place.

I hear the way that others say
they could quit at any time,
and I believe them; it’s easy leaving,
but they cannot see the fight I’m in;
I cannot let up
or it will win.