Pressing hard to my lips
The back of my wrist,
Saliva pooling thickly
As my stomach churns sickly-
Old habits dying hard,
And dead-set on
Killing me, too
I need desperately another mouth
To occupy mine
At times like this,
Scrambling kisses
That you'll break away from
To tell me smiling
What my teeth taste of today
Instead I'm sucking bruises
Into the thin skin of my forearms-
Idle hands, etc.-
And taking shuddering breaths
Until the impulse passes
Because six months clean
Is not one more thing
That this disease
Will steal from me.