Picking My Poison

I thought I’d woken up

in a cold, wet ditch again,                 

my lips wrapped around

a cheap bottle of whiskey

the way I want your limbs

wrapped around my aching body;

but I’m not sure I’d feel any different

if I’d woken up on the sand

with sunshine in my eyes.

I tell you,

this is how I thrive.

I’m speaking to you,

but you don’t hear.

Is the faintness of my plea

below your frequency?

I’d speak up if I could,

but it feels as if the last boy

ripped out my voice box

and it’s only just now starting to heal.

Tell me what it feels like to feel.

Please,

Tell me why you can’t be here;

why we can’t lie in bed,

scratch secrets

into each other’s skin.

Why can’t you be the one

that does me in?