You spit cold like you mean it,
but your too numb to repeat it.
Digging holes that you sleep in
and you can't wish them away.

Fleshy webbing rots separately
from your polyester core
which quietly crackles sad goodbyes.

Your falling into abandon's tricky arms.

And as you crawl back
to gutter girls and cigarettes
tell me, are you o.k. with what you've got?