10 March 2011

Self-Inflicted Wounds

Will you be my beggar
Will you be the one who soothes my wounds
Watch as the sores open and spill out
As my vitriol turns in on itself
Consuming me and feeding my drive

Placed in the box
With nowhere to run or hide
Sensually feel me and my verb
Tell me I’m good, that I’ve been a good boy
That I’m the only one

Read my words and tell me you love them
Tell them you hate me
Feel me growing inside you
Give me peace of mind
Let me grow more and more

Take me with you and swallow me whole
Give in to my teenage urge
Feel me from the page that glows glorious
Emaciate every last inch of me
Object to nothing

Drink this down your slender neck
And tell me you hate it

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