My boobs may sag but they don’t get cold.

My butt may be flat but it eats seats whole.

My body may not be picture ready, but it takes on life.

I live within this sack that I judge for simply not looking right.

Thank you for being there, ungrateful as I am.

I appreciate the ways you carry me, and give reason to do what I can.

Political ads.

Fake food.

Everything costs too much.

And this one's got bite.

Don’t take them in—

jolly good lyrics

interpersonal words

for your asses.

Spit in my face

when you yell at meh.

That’s the only way

I’ll hear ya.

Somewhere,

we used all the coffee pods,

in the mornings.

Somewhere,

we lost the sense

and maybe even the love.

Pure survival.

Good intentions.

Lost time.

Pains behind me,

everything to be had in front.

Don’t look at me

with those eyes.

You can’t fucking handle me.

You know it.

Too much spirit.

Overflowing,

shaking a pair of bones

like dice.

Girls cannot love,

Boys want war,

Women bring love,

and Men finish wars.

Shank my bloody pumper.

Take everything else.

Leave the teeth.

I'm so tough that you're

not allowed to see me cry.

A four inch wooden paddle

with another man's name

engraved deeply.

Punks are made,

not born.

I’ll balance on this beam

of life—

creation unstoppable,

no viewership required.

You'll find me years later,

in a cramped apartment in Baltimore,

smothered to death by poems and drawings.

Human debri again.

Unremarkable creatures

to the enth degree.

It’s the ignorable factors

that interest me.

It's watching cities burn

that excites me.

Bear me.

Count what’s left.

Look up at the burning sky

reluctantly.

Always, afterward.

Well, I suppose,

it's due time.

I'll flick this into the sewer

and go my merry way.