you gotta know what part of your head to listen to

With cuticles like
angry crumbling cliffs
edging smooth, sloping seas,
I throw the phone down -
turmoil times ten
shreds each fingertip.
I know what I need.
I stop,
shower, and
think.

"Do you blaze? We could
listen to music; let me
dab out your brains!"
At that text, a tsunami
jumps under the waves
in my hands; craggy shores
underneath, weak, of course
break.

And I felt my mind split:
the addict,
the habit
at once found the phone,
grabbed it,
and said I don't do dabs,
but a blunt would be lovely.
It was laughing, already covering
up the guilt the sea was thundering

when my better half:
the part I admire,
the part that loves me back -
the self-denying-for-pleasure,
disciplined, fit,
gentle masochist -
slapped the addict,
and spat at it.
Told the boy I knew
I should have said no

with hands that did not shake,
and pride that quieted
the ocean's row.

The cliffs were tired and raggedy
from this battle between
slices of brain.

Passionate, my good half
took the addict in its arms
and held its shaking frame.