something about this poem takes me back. no matter what occurrs, you have to remember, accept, bitch, and get on with it.
chronic
my lips can move
and press cold skin
my fingertips
can break the ice
my skin can press
upon his flesh
while screaming,
heaving,
sighing,
caress.
my heart can cease
(it's not her place)
my eyes can close
(i don't need to see his face)
my nerves in tune
my brain a haze
i just listen to the music
i know how it plays
i move in tune
and wear him out
i kiss his curves
till morning sun peers out
then cast aside
and thrown away
i amble into morning day
alone and worn
cold wet, unfulfilled
running on empty
but shaking from the thrill
he'll see me once
and not remember my face
it hardly matters
it's all the same
this is becoming chronic?
and you'll never know
the pain i felt
when ripped apart by you
i dealt
you never know just how it feels
to be a loser, a sinner
never loved or fulfilled
this is not an attack on you
i just needed a night
to be ripped apart by emotions
to not think or be right
he gave me that
and i'm thankful, you see
chronic this was?
well, chronic is me!
and chronically you look down
on me, old friend
one day you'll rightly understand
that life is not limited to rational thought
and cheap feelings are bad
but goddamnit, they can't be bought
to live without desire is like a room without air
not breathing
no speaking
no feelings
no care
no regrets, we say
and no regrets is right
to err human
to become regretful trite
so "chronic" you say
are the sins of people like me
well, i may be a sinner
but at least my sins set me free.
