I was promised companionship,
and a kiss good night,
and maybe pancakes tomorrow morning.
I don’t think I’ll eat.
My fingers hurt from steely guitar strings
Strung across a body just like mine,
I’ve been sniffling on and off.
On, my head starts to hurt and my eyes get shiny.
How fucking romantic,
the weeping musician, alone.
And it’s nights like this I could see myself, I dunno,
addicted to coke, or maybe body modification.
Red-raw nasal passages and skin uplifted by scars and stars made of silicone,
my bad decisions embedded in my flesh,
a map of wrong turns and misdemeanors.
I wish I could starve away to a sliver.
Instead I am round, and full on frustration
and four bowls of cereal,
eaten just to have something to do.
Among the things I don’t understand are,
and why I’m alone tonight.