The Reverie of Slit

The confessions of an alcoholic wannabe.

Slit

The slitation of wrists,
I insist
Slowly quickly tiny squeamish bits
Of this and those of that
That must
Never never ever bust
It’s like
Tasty liquid poison dribbling through
A desperate
Burn covered throat
It wants
It craves
It swallows
Down it goes up into that brain
Pleasure comes faster than the pain
Love it
Hate it
All the same
With nobody but itself
To blame.