is the rechid vomit sprawled out unconcious across the floor
They took away everything they could find
and burned it in a black plastic bag
I was quarentined from your disease
in my little room without a doorknob
They called themselves the "cure"
Shaking and shuddering from the withdrawls
huddled against the wall, clawing at the window in darkness
Instead of weening myself off your taste, the thick sweet syrup
They stopped my addiction abruptly
or so the "cure" thought
You mailed me secretive small doses for a price
I can survive without a chunk or two or ten
of my heart, it is still beating and bleeding, although slowly.
But i can not live without you.
What a joke.
Your grams were weak and tainted
I grew sick of your sickness
Allow me to throw you out of my system.
How are you?
Who have you infected lately?