death by paper cut

chapped lips

back of august, too much fucking. not enough getting to know me. i feel like a dog in heat, whimpering at the sight of anybody loving me. a little. or less.
             "what the fuck is wrong with you,"
    how i get drunk just to fight with you,
your hands are shaking, didn't learn how to let the fist go like my ma always said. and i never shook my drinking problem or let the vacancy of you outgrow me, and i still talk too much when i shouldn't have.

you're running circles around me, eighth grade gym class is like a disease i can't stop catching. back of august, lips still chapped and yet you don't love me.