To the Dregs

My whole mind must be like this, half-conscious and confused.

I always drink down to the last dregs of a bad muse.

I could throw it out before it tastes like the can, but I refuse.

Every time I see you, I think I wish that you'd gone missing,

I can't stand to see you, but the sight of your lips calls for kissing.

I don't even like you anymore, but I must still want this thing.

I see you protest such attraction. We'd like it to go, but it won't.

My mind is always stubborn when I know what I'm doing. Why not when I don't?