It hasn't been a lullaby

I am not a thing of pride
Just a battered bag of bones
And burned out thoughts
Soaked in vodka and self
Loathing. It hasn’t been a
Lullaby, and every goddamn
Morning I wish the razor had
Been a little sharper, the pills
Little stronger, or my resolve a
Bit more so. I am torn upon the
Jagged edges of a broken heart,
I am unmade and float into the ether.
No hands to feel your skin, no mouth
To kiss, I am but a wisp of anger in the air.