Punch Drunk, Fuck

Punch Drunk, Fuck

He sits alone at a table for two
nursing a bottle of bourbon. I despise
his askance glances and the one line quips
that encompass his social repertoire.
It was just another chance meet at the door.
Tangled within each other once again,
we've been here before. 'You just can't resist'
he says with that smile, that smile, and I swing
for his face, and then he has me by the throat
against the bathroom floor. I taste blood, and
we're kissing. Behind me with his arms around
my body, his hand counting, one by one,
each rib, as it makes the passage into
the brevity of my waist line. He stops,
just there, in the slope of my hip. I feel
the hum of his resonance on my neck,
'this has been my favorite part of you.'  

Part time bad asses with tattoos and scars,
or one time shots at the punk rock extreme,
we were always products of the same scene.
Pushed together by the fear of sleeping
alone, we'd never admit there was never
anyone else,  or that it was impossible
to say  'I love you' through gritted teeth.  
Childhood lessons taught in lilac promises,
colored by shades of the deepest contusions,
we have defined ourselves as 'damaged goods.'
Irrevocably entwined in the same demons,
I couldn't even admit that when I said,
'don't be here when I wake up' I really
meant 'please stay with me until I'm asleep.'