These broken people

whose steps are stumbles,

whose words are either strained and unsure

or sharp as daggers,

they walk so close

their shoulders caress.

These broken people,

they hurt because they are hurting,

they hate because they feel unloved,

they dream because their existence is ******* than the **** filled sewers

that sit stagnantly under their feet

as they walk too close,

as their shoulders caress.

These broken people

with eyes so filled

they spill and spill

down their cheeks

onto their sheets,

they weep without making a sound.

These broken people who ask

Who am I?

They sit in despair

because their tiny brains can’t think up the ******* answer

to this cosmic question.

Who am I?

They wonder,

between the drags from their cigarette mountains.

Who am I?

The question is slurred

because of the spell of intoxication they have put themselves under.

Who am I?

They moan,

from the cold bed of a stranger.

This question continues to bounce around in their skulls

giving them incurable migraines

of the existential variety.

These broken people

we are among them

with tears shed

and mountains of cigarettes,

with pools of sorrow in our wake.

With scars on our shoulders,

scars to caress.

We are just people

and we are in love.