Ran that sick cycle, a girl that was.
The one that’s dead but you drag around?
This should be past tense by now.
Hands that please yourself, indulge.
Be it too much cream, be it a mind cat set for self-destruct.
Or verse in your skull you reconstruct.
Hell knows this ain’t what you need.
But you know the cheep trick bleed.
Not from self-inflicted wounds,
But from the ache you choose to breast;
and chosen lack of self-respect.
Why drag around something dead?
Why choose the sick again in head?