Skin Prison Suffering

Acid tongue
The swollen taste buds
the biting-the-cheek-screams
of "damn it, again?"

We languish at the hands of
our own desire
We return for 
the comfort of
our own convenient respite

To know and not resign from
the butchery of our compulsion 
To visit, again
that Place of Suffering

To willfully return to
A thing rife with pain and,
to find our home in
A place of rote confines
​
Our skin, a complacent prison 
for an easy reply
Our drive to reside in
a place that might comply with
All with which we've come to terms...
with truths we might deny
while the flavors of
our "might have been"
are cast easily aside