It's there, under the surface, barely

“Yes, well,

I prefer the present tense anyway

Past and future are imaginary”

The place I stuff it is full

and it’s seeping out

into my thoughts

and the flashes in my eyes

and into words,

twirled so lightly on my fingers

“The ache is delicious and heady and tingles and love and lust and need and ache and it's good and bad and screaming and kicking and

most of all, it's real.

like you

and me”

and it wants out.

We are real and I’m not afraid today. (I desperately want to say, anymore, but I get afraid, really afraid sometimes)

We are real and there are things I can’t explain that come from somewhere unknown.

And I can’t scream without reason, it’s just not the same.

I can’t beg for someone that’s not there.

There’s an emptiness that’s whole

and a freedom within binds.

I’m a junkie without a fix

I’m the addict

and I’m pushing it down

pushing it down

pushing it down