gave my piece away; under.
ill & light. mouth &
things, child.

it was a choke and you are the sick toy that the girls grow bored of.
lights and orgasms, dimming and you are the wrong temperature.

i could, but i'm okay with the dirt on my skin. stones, below,
i am climbing along concrete, rusted metal frames
leave red on my palms and i am so close to the night sky.

i don't write for you, i don't sing for you, and i don't fuck for you.
the comics are eager to please, the laughter abates
a bitter toxin that runs in them; they could do with a breathmint.

i am laughing at the bar. the more it costs,
the slower i go. and they are so easy.

what makes it like this? what makes you think
that love had anything to do with this?