Don't wanna be your final meal
Eat your own heart
And taste just how it feels
Red track marks oozing down your chin
I wonder,
Will you blame it on the ethanol again?

Because I'm not your favourite Heroine.
Not your favourite Nicotine.
Not your favourite way to shoot up or
smoke up or
Reason to stay clean.

Instead, I'm your ***** hangover, the
dregs in the syringe. Perhaps
You'd understand my bitterness if you
spent some time in the bin
Or I could save you the trouble
Smell me.
That's my stink.

I'm not your favourite heroine.
Not the soft satin of Fantasy, I'm the
Bearer of Reality
I'm Nothing
I'm Everything

I'm the water that you reach for
In the morning after sin
I'm the coffee with no sugar
I'm the box of biscuits, that turns
out to be a sewing tin.

What I'm not is another substance