Somehow, I need to learn to strangle the insomniac,
self-inflected, narcissistic monster.
I feel you every ******* day in my fingers, in my bones,
under my skin, thudding hard against my veins.
You pour out so smooth in my words,
and through any **** pen in my shaking hand.

Do you think there’s any hope left in me?
Any innocence spared?
I’d count for the first, but the second’s a toughie.
I’m sick of seeing the same thing when I close my eyes,
and craving the same thing
between my sheets.

This train better stop soon,
or if it’s crashed somewhere-
somewhere deep,
deep down in a place we’d both dare not visit again-
do you wonder if the passengers survived,
and who will appear when the smoke clears?