Burn your skin. Burn your throat
With a cup of gin,
Don't pretend that you prevent
A red glow searing in.
In your soul no control,
Through the skin and through the vein,
The edge of pain can drown it all,
And gin cuts the pain.
Cold as blade, then searing hot,
The words so soft and nice:
A carefree home, no lighting rod,
Before you struck it twice
Burn your soul
Because the wounds on the outsides
Are unlike the ones on the inside:
They will always heal.
I made the original poem better