No, this is not autobiographical. And not necessarily about addiction to drugs as much as it is about addiction to anything that drags you further away from who you want to be.

The man in the mirror is not me.

Oh, he may have my look and my clothes,

But that sharp smile and those flat eyes can't be mine;

I know myself.

It's been like this for a while now, he and I,

To the point where I refuse to look at him.

I grab my coat and my hat, and pausing at the door, I repeat it:

Listen, listen, I know myself.

He follows me, I know he does;

When he's not in the reflection, he's in the mind,

As potent as botulinum, cruel as the rack.

He might be compelling, but I cannot give in.

Every Sunday now, I go to church without exception—

If I cannot purge the devil out of me, perhaps they can.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,

And I don't intend to stop.

See, he's the side of me that burns with addiction,

And it's no battle at all, I just surrender myself.

I know he's destroying me, hollowing me out into a husk of what I was;

The shame of doing nothing turns the mirror dark,

Glass fogged, until there's only the shape of a person,

No substance.

Nothing but the crooked-grinned shadow, the man

That used to be me.