I can feel death
or maybe I crave it
every time I see her
passed out on the couch
from a drunken stupor

When she's conscious
she stabs me with words
as if to provoke me
to violence
giving her superiority

She kills herself
While killing me
not caring/not giving/not gloating
Crushes my dreams
Insults my creed
just taking/not feeling/destroying

But for some reason
I don't know why
I still love her

That's how sick I am

by Mark Millspaugh

Other poems of MARK MILLSPAUGH (2)

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