I am nothing
if not faithful
to the dark.

Self-destruction
is a sexual being.
It flirts like a pro.

I’m in love with you,
it croons, and I give in
the natural way, allowing

myself to be seduced
until I’m wound up in a string
of sunrises seen at bedtime.

Those nights awake
have given me much,
cost me much.  I breathe

wrong, sleep wrong,
snarl at kindness,
marry the sorrow

I am bound to hold
and cherish.  I’ve learned much.
Wouldn’t have it another way,

if I’m to be honest.  Someone
has to do this — otherwise,
who would give meaning to the day?