Sex injects like local anaesthetic.
Moans and screams become my new aesthetic.
Intimate? More mutal masturbation.
After every binge are the same remains:
Empty vessels, bad taste, dead cells and stains.
All thought is burnt in the flames of desire.
Indulgent guilt the ashes of the fire.
Like orgasmic organic opiates,
The deception was the touch of lips.
My lap weren't empty 'til filled with your hips.
The only cold turkey is probably me,
To retire restraint even just for a week.
Not hard to 'have not' what you never had.
To win to know you'll lose is fucking mad.
Now, my cravings sing for sterility.
The absence of interaction for me.
Inmate? There's a vacancy in my place.
And I prune all expression from my face.
(Now all that remains is anger and hate...)