Dear Greg

Hi Greg,

can you hear me? 

I’m the ghost of your relapse.

I’m inside your hollow skull.

I’m the monkey on your back.

I’m the consequences you regret.

I’m the evil shade of ultravox,

Vienna meant everything to you.

It took two to dance our degeneracy

and I won’t let you go sober.

I’m the two litre bottle of vodka 

that’s grown emotions of her own.

I’m crawling into the cavity in your chest 

and I fit perfectly.

You can’t resist me;

I am the desire you’re powerless over.

God won’t help you here.

I’m young, hot, and out of reach for a creep like you, 

unless caught up in the two-person tango

you choreographed, remember?  

I’m the little sister who used to call you “daddy”.

Don’t date someone older, now, 

like I’m something you could leave behind.

You claim that it’s over, but 

you smile, bashful, at my attention,

and I see it, I see my in,

I see you begging “please, break me again”.

Don’t you worry, Greg.

I’m coming to get you.

I won’t let you leave me lonely.

I’m Vienna,

waiting, 

for you.