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
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
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
