There aren't many things
I get right in this life.
I light cigarettes just to watch
them burn,
and drink liquors
that taste like gasoline
to watch them burn through me.

I've never been someone
to love someone else
without loving
how they make me feel first.

And all the men and boys
and drug users
and *** addicts
call me a *****
and call me cold
because I can't love them more
than they love
the valleys of my ribs
and the lavender that grows
in them.

But the truth is,
that I don't think
I'll ever be able to
love someone else,
not like I love
sitting on the porch
of a chilly morning
or the crimson color
of paper cuts
from the $2 tattered novels
I buy from junk stores.

There aren't many things
I get to keep in this life,
other than my own scars,
dreams, and vices.
And I'd rather them consume me,
turn me into ash,
then be the dust
that sits on top of
books unread.