Call me junkie. I’ll wear the track marks of every fight, every make-up, every time you left and I still left the door unlocked.
No filter. No cure. No apology.
I walk into the fire with a match in each hand. I choose the crash. I choose the spiral. Because even the withdrawal—the shaking hands, the phantom limb of your laugh—feels more real than a safe, quiet, unloved life. love junkie raw free
It sounds like you’re asking for a piece of writing—perhaps a poem, a song lyric, or a raw journal entry—titled or themed around Call me junkie
So for now: Let me be raw. Let me be greedy. Let me be the love junkie who finally admits— the only chain I wear is the one I forged myself. And I call it devotion . No cure
I don’t need a needle. I don’t need a glass pipe or a crumpled bill. I need your thumb tracing my clavicle at 3 a.m. I need the hit of your voice—hoarse, half-asleep, saying my name like a dare.