“Junkie” – a poem by Emilia Riina for addiction awareness
“Oh look it’s a junkie, they look like a crackhead.”
Do you even know if they have a bed or have been fed?
Do you know the person behind that word?
They just want to be heard and known for who they are, not just have their reputation blurred.
That “junkie” has a story just like you.
Oh man, you have no clue.
They have their demons and they are human too.
They are withdrawing constantly, like the bank account of a struggling gambler.
They’re begging for drugs — that’s why they’re the panhandler.
Do you ever think they might just want a hug to remind them it’s okay?
Of course they do, because even their own family won’t give them a place to stay.
You see their face is pale and picked at.
Well, they’re scared, and you just don’t see that.
They beg for the devil’s snow to sniff off a mirror reflecting their sorrow.
They cry and weep just to let go.
They want the pain to end somehow,
But they just don’t know what to do right now.
Don’t judge an addict by their looks like a book you haven’t read past the cover.
You ignore the person behind the drugs until they’re gone — and then discover that was someone’s brother.
Those “junkies” are A-D-D-I-C-T-S and HUMAN too — but you just don’t see that, do you?
A – Anxious and alone
D – Depressed
D – Discriminated
I – Independent
C – Covering pain
T – Trauma
S – Suffering and scared
Their lives are hard — just like their crack.
They have to beg just to go get a snack.
They whittle away to skin and bones,
Paying a death toll like they’re repaying loans.
They have feelings too — you don’t know the h3ll of a day they had,
Because they hide it — but trust me, it was that bad.
I’m one of those addicts too — and got clean — but I still don’t feel seen.
I’ve been a year sober,
But I still get told, “you should’ve done more since October.”
I don’t feel understood for anything that happened past my childhood,
And I don’t feel like anyone believes anything I do is any good.
I wish there was less of “you should,” and more of “you could.”
I want to be believed — but feel there’s more regret that I was even conceived.
My family treats me like I’m not an equal — like, come on man, I’m trying to prevent the sequel.
I fight my own brain just to stay sane.
Man, I’m so drained.
All I ask for is some rest so I can heal —
But oh yeah, sorry Mom, that wasn’t part of our deal.
While my family tells me to go make some bread,
All I’m thinking in my head is: do you even care that I’m not dead?
Can I even heal in this misunderstood world?
No — because everything I do or say gets twisted and swirled.
They say I can’t deal — like this is a card game.
Give me a break.
You act like being sober is a piece of cake.
Try being in my world for just a second —
I bet you wouldn’t last even a millisecond.
So try a day as me if you think it’s bliss — and so easy to get through, like your first kiss.
I start by waking up in the morning dreading another day of addiction.
Now listen — and be ready for my depiction:
Begging your dealer to cop just to clear your head,
So you don’t lose your mind and wind up dead.
Screaming every morning because Satan is clawing from within,
You picked your skin raw last night from the opiates swimming through your system.
Crying, trying to hide the things you saw or did,
Then popping a pill or snorting a line just to stop yourself from wanting to quit.
You took so many pills last night your boyfriend thought you were seeing the light.
Now you’re blowing up your dealer’s phone because your skin’s crawling
And your mind’s racing in the unknown, thinking about how much of a disgrace you are.
Honestly, you’re begging for an overdose, overwhelmed by the weight of despair.
You check your pulse —
People probably think it’s a matter of time before you convulse.
Dealer finally answers.
You spend the night chasing your fix,
Trying to come up with money in a world full of tricks.
And yeah — sometimes you ask for a front,
And fronts are never free.
You know what? Neither was me.
But at least I can finally breathe after the drugs,
Feeling like someone gave me a hug.
At least my grave isn’t dug tonight,
And for once, I feel alright.
I dissolve into euphoria for the rest of the night,
Until the next morning when I wake to fright.
Trying to enjoy the high, pushing tomorrow out of my mind,
Knowing deep down, I’m trapped and confined.
I fall from the sky wishing I could say goodbye.
Then the next day says, “You’re back in h3ll. Hi.”
So that’s a typical day for an addict.
Would you want to continue the game or switch characters?
Oh sorry — you can’t.
You couldn’t last a second in my skin —
Your head would spin just to be me for a day, let alone within.
Be careful what you say — words do affect people and their day.
You don’t know someone’s life.
So don’t tell people how to live — and just keep that judgment away.
Addicts hate the word “junkie” — so don’t use it.
If it’s so hard for you to stop, then don’t ask why we use drugs in a world like this.
Don’t be so quick to judge.
Don’t call someone a junkie when you don’t know their full story or inventory.
Addiction deserves awareness, not hate.
Compassion, not shame.
Understanding, not dehumanization.
Just because you don’t understand someone’s path doesn’t mean it’s your place to judge it.
Everyone has their own way of healing.
Thank you. 
— Emilia Riina
