my scars ache
thin, raised lines
on my right thigh
run like railroad tracks
crossing maps

a little crease
on the third digit
of my index finger
speaks with more conviction
than some people

the one growing out
from the corner
of my left eye
a permanent squint mark
like a part of me is
always laughing

the fresh burn on my
shoulder, feeling bolder
the word "older" seeping
under my skin

my scars ache
thin raised lines
run like railroad tracks
crossing maps

do they come back?
      do they ever
                   come
                         back?

I shouldn't even be here
the sky is void of stars
this is not my night
these are not my "people"
and she doesn't have that glow
she doesn't have a glow at all
I usually get headaches around her
with the light shining from her soul
there was a point
walking down the street
she locked arms with me
and it almost felt familiar, almost right
I have shown her places that were memories of mine
and now, I am just a drop of water on the fishing line
I am too rare of a breed for her common sense of taste
quite elusive and reclusive and I am only out late
she caught me hungry enough to be fooled by her bait
then skipped the wait, threw me back
and didn't even watch as I swam away
as if she knew I needed to be free
and couldn't take the thought of seeing me having to flee
well, maybe that is  just what I want myself to believe

Orange hair on a hard mattress.
You smelt of lavender and gin
and I knew in some adverse way
that I was responsible for both
and from it I took small pleasures
all of them equally as perverse
and unjustified.

It's all the motions of unrequited love;
except it's as far from unrequited as it could be
and I'm happy about that.

A man once told me that someday I might be happy
that I didn't get the things I so strongly yearned for.

He said might, but he did not emphasize it.