Bored to Death

I am riled, but tired-
no, bored

I miss butterflies
the feeling that rises in my gut
as a strong hand wraps
around my throat

I miss the thrill

I want to be hunted again
and when I'm finally
trapped and backed
into a corner I want
wandering eyes
to consume my flesh

Maybe then I'll feel alive

I want to cross lines
commit the kind of crimes
left unspoken beneath
forbidden sheets

Because when i think of him
I'm on the verge of death
and I'm drowning
in old cravings I miss
like a sweet and toxic drug
tainting my very breath
with words left unspoken
in my swollen lungs

And I'll let it break me
drive me insane
with verses I write
before the break of day
and I'll let it take me
until I'm a fucking wreck
naked for no one's display
on my lonely bed

You see..

I'm
bored.
To
death.