one day as we
were on the couch
intertwined, like lovers
he told me that
he didn't like bukowski
because he
was
weird

I said
yeah
I understand
he's a strange
one

my eyes fell
silent
but my mind
flashed back to all
the nights I spent
with a lit cigarette
in my mouth
and Post Office
in my hand

I remembered all
the times I ran
with tears streaming down
my chest
to the books beside
my bed
and wept into
the words of the ones
like me

I thought of
all the moments
I thought I
couldn't do it
anymore
and I crawled
with bruises on my back
and bandaged
my heart
with the words of
the ones
like
me

I guess I will never
know the touch
of love
of holding hands
on the street
and a nice house
in the neighborhood
with curtains
that match
the
pillows

I was meant
for rooftops
and sinners
and poems of
heartbreak
and loathing in
Las Vegas

so I left the couch
and stumbled
home
so I could
climb into bed
and read the stories
of all the bukowskis
and the thompsons
and the plaths
and the faulkners
and all the
weird
crazy
tortured
wild
sad
violent
reckless
true
passionate
ones

the
ones
like
me