I've got that familiar chill in my fingertips
that means only one thing;
I'm in deep,
fight or flight
fend or befriend
the supreme urge to run
because I remember you
I remember what you can do to me
even so much as thinking of you
like bloody Mary or ginger snaps.
I won't say your name
or dare to go near a mirror
just in case the sad smile I wore
the one you told goodbye to, will escape.
Then I'll be left having feelings again
and feelings are for suckers
when there isn't enough
booze or smokes or hate
left to disguise them
The fact that hate is a feeling
means little to nothing
when you're drunk as drunk on turpentine
yes I know I stole your words
but for the longest time you stole mine
I wanted forever to write again
like I used to, so freely
hatred, drink and cigarettes
failing and fucking up
doing things the wrong way round
and forgetting all the names
took care of that, it seems.
I keep wanting to write about the big dark clouds
or the rain that falls and pours and pounds,
the thick, fast, stormy rain;
the one I told you made me feel at home
except where I'm from- the rain is never that warm.
This content is intended for mature audiences.
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