Depression hangs over my shoulder
Waiting, like a sentence to be ended
Holds hands with my daughter
A hole in my chest yet to be mended
She survives off my blood, my love
Drinks tea with death who knows
Her far better than I ever will -
But I feel them, still
Bulimia's an old friend, an old game
I'm bored of her as a lover
The cycle is futile; it all feels the same
Self-harm: there's another
My litany of stupidity, I smile
At the stranger who is already bored
Of my endless disappointment -
I buy them a drink
