I'm letting you go.
The skipping of old memories keep tripping me up in the brain.
I can't go back to the consistent itching for your attention.
It isn't there.
And it wouldn't be the same.
This isn't about you but me.
The continuous swinging of the bottle that is you has made me numb.
So numb that I didn't realize the bottle is empty.
And the only thing slipping down my throat is the desperate need for you to sedate it.
Cotton is forming in my throat and all I want  is your prideful hands to start plucking.
To feel your touch again.
Have one last moan to rock the cotton free of its bristles.
Ahh what an addict I've become.
My fear of not let go runs deep.


You're not worth it
But I am
I'm chose me.
I rather let go.