Warm inside, but my skin is sick,
and the bumps climbing up me make me bite my lip.
I taste blood from coping with the pain,
of lost memories though they remain.
My legs shiver with anticipation for something that has already happened.

Who knew you'd cut it all,
starving yourself of the love I gave away.
Maybe it wasn't enough, or it might not have been worth the trouble.
I question our actions now, and my skin crawls,
because I am suffering withdrawals.