This Time Last Time - 26/02/19

I've wet my mind with wine -

for the final time,

I swear it.

I've a filthy mouth and swear

the same tomorrow.

I keep my hurting habits

faithfully;

I feel I'm scared to change.

The habit is the hurting and the

yearning

still

for still

the dark orange mane

swinging

through the 16th summer

(the 17th I never saw).

Mourning my three years,

and my old olive

skin withstanding

burning I no longer bear -

frigid and pale

as I am sweltering and

screaming/

begging

for touch

from hands that remind me,

wrap me,

around the full circumference of my thigh.

Pleasure dies in me,

cut with shame.

I am guilty

when they finish me.

I am a child again,

offering over

my legs and lips

to be rubbed and kissed

by wolves.

Men.

Memories.

I'm lonely when they leave me.

Through every comfort I've fled,

I'm sentimental

still.

I can't atone for all the hurt I've dealt.

I'll die before I'm well.