Naked and broken, half dead on the ground,
Screams pouring out but I can't hear a sound.
You held my heart and then ripped it in two,
I'm shackled and bound, still bleeding for you.

I drink in order to write
and, often times,
I write to be able to to drink
without the fallout
that surely would
accompany it
otherwise.

There is a madness,
an itch in the back of the throat,
hoarse from screaming,
broken now and caught
on the knowledge
that no one has heard,
let alone understood,
again and again and…