eating my insides

I am drawn as a moth
Nothing do I want more
Yet sickening to me
a bitter taste of sense
however common makes my insides
feel extruded to paste
then ground up like dried autumn leaves

I want nothing else
I need anything else
I could use a little help

Maybe we can meet for tea?
But then the turmoil would overtake
And I'd risk laying it all on your plate

Please, dawn. Come take me
Through this and past it

It is my race to heal