for m

Why do you exist in here?
The tone is dark, the tone's not clear.
there's a creaking, like a twist;
of the plastic straw you sucked and kissed.

Like the feathered wreck,
you hook and catch.

Your shadow made on greasy walls,
kicking concrete lines; with grime you brawl.

The steps you take you synchronize,
with the eerie timbre you harmonize.

Torn and tattered, sallow faced,
your watered eyes are crescent-shaped.

Biting lips till blood is drawn,
with meticulous steps you patter on;
to meet the next waifish wisp
bowing brow and finger in fist.

Your breath is caught by no one great,
like the ones you imitate.

Eating cigarettes.

Prostitute pirouettes.

You pick your teeth,
then the pick you bequeath,
to the greasy newspaper fold,
under the plate of chicken gone cold.

 You are (not) alone,
in the little room of your shabby home.