Dear Heroin

Dear Heroin,

I hope you rot.

I hope the same poison you give

finds its way back into your own veins.

I hope it burns.

Because you came quiet.

Not with claws, but a whisper.

Not a storm, but a seduction.

You didn’t knock—you slithered in,

wearing promises like perfume.

She was soft before you.

Loud in the way sunlight is loud—

bright and warm and everywhere.

But you dulled her.

You taught her how to disappear

while still sitting at the table.

She used to call me when she needed someone.

Now she only calls when she needs you.

And somehow, even though you’re not real,

you always answer.

You hold her tighter than I ever could.

You sleep beside her,

convince her she’s loved.

You make her believe she can’t live without you,

even as you take her life

inch by inch,

vein by vein.

You’ve stolen birthdays.

Holidays.

Apologies I was owed.

You’ve stolen the sister who braided my hair

and told me secrets.

You’ve replaced her with a ghost

who lies with eyes open,

and bleeds while she smiles.

She calls you medicine.

I call you murder.

She says you help her feel whole.

But I see the holes—

in her arms,

in her stories,

in the fabric of our family.

I see what you’ve done to our mother.

The way she sleeps with one ear open,

phone clutched like a life vest.

The way she stopped asking

“Where is she?”

and started praying

“She’s still alive.”

You made our love conditional.

Tied it to clean drug tests

and missed calls.

You turned our home

into a battlefield

where forgiveness fights with fear.

I hate you.

And yet, I write this

knowing she still loves you.

Knowing she’s somewhere right now,

kneeling to your altar,

pushing your poison into her veins

like a prayer.

I wonder if you’ll win.

If I’ll one day bury my sister

while you walk free,

looking for your next victim.

But I want you to know—

I see you.

I name you.

And no matter how many times

she lets you in,

I’ll keep standing at the door,

waiting to pull her back out.

Because you don’t get to write her ending.

Not while I still breathe.

Sincerely,

The one who remembers who she was

before you.