the problem with purging

 
I wish I could tell you
that I'm more than just a barmaid
with wires weighing my blood
and sobriety
in my fears.
That I'm trying
to halut these impending scratches
on the bottom of my gypsy feet
with your hands
deathly wrapped around my ankles
like iron shackles.
I want to be the nicotine
bruised on your lips
and wet between your finger tips
so I can lick them clean again. 

I wish I could tell you
that I hate myself
enough to wait
as you continue pushing me away.
Look at me
and honestly say
there's not ivy in my veins
and thorns
barbed in wrong places.
They're beginning to protrude 
from the absence of your touch
and embrace the achings
of my starving skin
in ways that comfort
the forgotten masochist in me.
Watch me mildew
if even just for the pure thrill
in surfeit instability.