Reaper, Be My Novocaine?

To Reaper

I know what you ask of me
and I know you're doing this
for my own good- you don't
want me to suffer anymore.

I no longer find solace in the
blade, tooth, nor nail.
I no longer chase after
mary jane and her exquisite highs.
(I do occasionally, I admit,
like to drink myself into oblivion.)

You see writing is my vice.
You see the pen is my knife
and the paper is my skin-
I like to carve my pain into it
and watch my words bleed.

It's the ultimate release-
when the words are out of me
they can no longer hurt.

Reaper, you are my Novocaine.
This sickly-sweet happiness
spreads throughout my body
whenever you are near me-
numbs me from my pain
but the withdrawals are a killer.

I need to find the balance
between the love for you
and the strung-out high you give me.
You make my skin itch.