La Brea Tar Pits

I awaken from what can hardly be called sleep 
  Starving as if I had two stomachs to feed 
  An ebb and tide of images in my mind of the two of you keeps my gut painfully empty 
  The tar boils and churns 
  I carve out and deny these infections on my soul and watch as they spawn a life of their own 
  Leaving snail trails of scars over what little of me is still pure 
  As they crawl towards where the tar boils and churns 
  Aborted parts of my psyche are all found nourishing themselves at these pits 
  Bubbling forth from the recesses of my mind where all I am slowly falls in 
  Abominations of my being incessantly teething