It could only be a liquor-soaked tongue
spitting lines of future love,
grinding my memory to the ground,
leaving me with no recollection of the sound.

You are not here
though you are breathing beside me,
in the hole I have dug from dream to reality,
stitching the wound to stop my mind bleeding;
reminding me to breathe easily.
You fill it up when you are not with me;
but you are not here,
you are not with me.

I left it all behind
only not to long ago,
I bled rivers from inside
and peeled skin from bone.
I keep hearing white noise
and knocking in my head,
I'm waking from delusional dreams
on the underbelly of my bed.

There's no peace that I can find
in such shallow pits of grey,
when he's only a fog of fabrication,
hanging with the filth I stow away.

My skull crumbles at the temple,
yet I'm the one to blame.
Let my ***** mind leak through,
I am glad to be sick again.