oh how cliché it is
to write a poem
about missing you

(but i do)

and while the bruises
on my bones still ache,
left by your drunken fists,
i lust after the thrill that came
with your hurricane love

like a drug

plunge the needle
in my vein
and shoot me up
because i’m addicted
    (to you)

i can cross out lines
a hundred times
but that doesn’t mean
i don’t mean them

and oh --
how you remind me of a poem
irrevocably broken
but beautiful, too

with your words
weighed down by whiskey
i wait
ready for the wounds