Chasing the Dragon

I thought it was my choice.

One line. One spark. One deep breath.

The taste of fire in my throat,

the smell of diesel filling my nasal cavity.

I called it a hunt,

but I was only opening the door.

-

The dragon wakes easily.

Feed it once

and it learns your name.

Your habits.

The buttons to press.

It waits in your blood,

curling smoke in your ribs,

scratching it's claws on the inside of your skull.

-

I chased it across mirrors,

over glass tabletops,

my razorblade ineffective

in it's defeat.

Each time I thought I caught it,

it slipped into smoke,

leaving ash in my teeth,

and numbness in my face.

Never enough.

Never close enough.

-

The dragon learned to chase me back.

In the quiet, it whispered.

In the dark, it stalked.

In the spaces between heartbeats,

its wings unfurled.

I ran, but you cannot escape

the beast that now lives in your marrow.

I hunted it,

but it hunted me.

-

The hunt never ends.

Every capture burns away,

every mouthful melts into hunger again.

The dragon will survive every strike

because it no longer lives outside.

It is inside.

It is waiting.

Every strike makes me an easier target.

-

I thought I was the hunter,

but the truth is sharper:

the trap had been set,

and the dragon had been hunting me all along.