Waste Myself

I'll waste myself on strangers
so I don't have to lie there alone.
The heat of something living
to ward off the cold undead fingers
of our once bright love.

What monstrous thing has it become?
Formless, whispering and chittering in the dark,
driven insane by unbelievable circumstance.
Its words (your words) crawling over me
- a swarm of angry thoughts
that nip and bite and burrow.

The stranger mistakes my desperate grasp for lust
- in moments we are lost in one another.
A hot burst of life against the night.
For that instant I feel release and released.
For that brief moment I am alive and free.

But in the final sex-rattle,
the convergent lust-spasm,
why do I name my demon?
Why is it always your name
I scream into the dark?