sickness in me
you resemble a disease
makes me
******
a bit queasy
the needles slippery
yet I need to feed
to bleed
to feel needed
even if this feeling is uneasy

you make me sick
like a disease
I beg for at my knees
a mere touch
a peculiar taste

I find myself wasting away
at the bottom of an ashtray
burnt out
exhumed with fumes
beginning of a drought

with this disease
in pursuit of a vaccine
ending of deceit
and a desire to feel complete