The hunger lives beneath my skin, a whisper that turns into a scream. I chase it, knowing I won’t win, still hooked upon the broken dream. The needle, the bottle, the burning flame, they carve their names inside my veins. A fleeting high, then deeper shame, a cycle built of iron chains. I swore I’d stop a thousand times, but cravings echo like churchyard chimes. They ring through night, they call through day, they drag my soul their crooked way. And yet inside, a spark remains, a fragile hope that breaks these chains. To rise again, to breathe, to fight, to trade the dark for morning light