Oxytocin Junky

Kitchen tile sheets got me feelin like stray dog
Pent up prayers
pleading in the prologue.
Cold sweats sweeter than
the cruel space beside me.
But I'm finally capable of diagnosin;
I'm just a junky for some oxytocin,
for a fix of fingers sliding down spare skin,
craving closeness like a hair pin.
And it's hard to get clean
when the fixes are free and
easy to find
for a feline like me,
So I indulge in this dreamtime dependence,
drowning out loneliness
with touch induced transcendence.
It's just a slow breathing addiction,
flesh touching friction.
I shoot up when the shivering sheets assure me I'd be better off blanketed by a body,
any body.
splintered by nights without any spooning,
left hungering for the high of
hands that could hardly hold my heart
But hold me none-the-less.
Coming up with creative ways to confess
that I'm an addict,
actively anchoring myself to the arms of others
to keep myself warm,
to get my fix,
to itch the itch,
to escape the empty bed,
and instead
pretend I'm not alone
for one more night.
I promise I'll quit tomorrow alright?
Let me have my way
and I'll let you have yours.