When I was young, you came with your black mouth agape and your blacker heart pounding with anticipation.I feared for my sanity or my life.
So I tried to drown you in drink, in powder,
in the temporary warmth of another body.
I ran until pleasure turned rice paper thin,
until every escape became another room
with you already lurking inside.
Now you have come again, older too, perhaps less dramatic, more patient, a monster that knows me too damned well.
There is no outrunning you now.
No chemical door, no borrowed skin
that will keep you from my bed at night
or silence you at the sink before dawn.
So I meet you with words.
Small weapons, perhaps
a sentence struck like a match,
words trembling against the dark.
I know you are strong.
But so am I.
A fight to the death would be pointless.
Neither of us seems ready to leave.
And, strange as it is to admit,
a life without you might feel unfamiliar
too quiet in rooms you have haunted
for so long.
So sit down, then.
Keep to your side of the table.
I will keep mine.
We will call this friendship if we must, maybe an agreement to let each other be, to endure the long, imperfect truce until death, at last, parts us
Rated for Everyone 
Categories:
PoetryHi Buddy
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Summary:
It's exhausting fighting all the time....isn't it.
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