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 ******* 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.