Knock one out, bitch.

I thought I might try and write something
then I realised what I had done
hadn't done
and what I was about to do:

I'd hate to be the poor little cunt
who lives beneath that tiny surge of adrenaline
that never gets big enough to make you jump
and never dies down enough to let you sleep
all because
"I haven't written a poem in over a week"

I haven't fucked in over a month.
Try that one on for size.
Pity me, pull at me
do as you wish,
but if the fickle act of endulging yourself
feels like a fix that kills the shaking
then put the pen down and crack one off.

I'm not saying there's a similarity,
but there is.

So drag me in to the cupboard
if you're reading this
show me someone who doesn't love me
and spill me
so that I can die inside the both of us.
Let me lose the reasons why I lift,
why I fight
why I love.
Let me be
for that moment so miniscule that it feeds nothing
yet everything is fed to it
during which there is an animalistic smile
until the tides of treason wash up
on the lonely little shore
I like to call
life.