Emotional Gob-Shite

I probably shouldn't take this out on the page.
The bruised knuckles
the scab at the back of my head
the damaged coccyx.
All so that my heart
can whine.
Alone, on the bed
is where I perch
needing food and water.
This poem is as bad as my constitution,
but it helps
a little.

Take the third line for example.
That aching, blood covered lump.
It might get me in my sleep
with a bit of luck.

This isn't any self-pity,
this is morbid desperation
as I wait for life to rebuild itself
so I can fuck it up again.