Fight

I've been thinking about the high, reaching that height.
I've been craving it, wanting to give up the fight.
But I think about the progress I have made. Is it really worth that scary fate?
I push away the thought, with one second guess. "Even with all this stress?' My mind argues.
Eying the drawer where my razor lies, then looking away for the thousandth time.
A nasty devil living in my head, pushing a habit that will leave me dead.
I've been fighting many highs for a long time.
No new cuts or anything destroying my lungs.
This devil is loosing the fight slowly. Every time I say no, he takes another blow and gets a little less showy.
Its a hard fight, but I'm not giving up.
I keep swinging, even if I miss. I will not feel that razor blade kiss.