The Withdrawal

Six days since I stopped. The house is a bell

that someone just rang and then walked away.

The fridge has a hum that’s a special kind of hell,

vibrating through the floor in a dull, heavy gray.

I looked at my hand. My index finger is stained

with a yellow patch that won't scrub off.

And my ring finger—well, the skin is still pained,

a pale, dented ditch where I used to scoff

at the weight of the gold. Now the skin is just bare,

trying to grow back over the mark of the years.

I’m quitting it all. The smoke and the care.

I’m just a person with some very loud ears.