my clothes smell like
****, cigarettes,
cheap perfume.
my breath smells like
smoke, beer,
boredom.

i want to spray paint
a list of everything I hate
on the side of a Walmart.
i want to tattoo
a list of everything i love
on the palm of my hand.

i want to stop rolling joints
on my Springsteen 45
but I also want
someone to ask me about it.

i want to keep sitting
on the ***** behind the bridge
smoking out of plastic bottles,
inhaling the desire
to stay young like this forever.

i want my hands to tell stories.
scars, tattoos, glitter, pen ink.
i want someone to turn
those into a poem,
a far better one than i could ever write.

i want to be lethal
but i’m coughing up my lungs
and the chemicals in my blood
will keep me alive just long enough
to let me watch myself fall apart.