Is it wrong that you aren't the one who belongs to me?
To be fully aware of that,
yet still be dying to taste the sweetness left on your breath from the liquor and cigarettes.
Is it terrible to envision myself gliding over your tattoos and clinging on to your hair.
I can see it.
Jumping off of responsibility.
Actually walking off, each button on your shirt being another step towards the edge.
I stop innocently flirting.
I start wanting,
dangerously craving,
desperately feenin',
until I wake up next to Sailor Jerry in the morning,
I look around for my friends and find myself alone,
the only other people in the room are remorse and shame.
With a pathetic look and a layer of filth they keep trying to scrape off with warm water,
its terrifying how much they looks like me.