im really just a spectre of the internet killing time in the real world, occupying space in a suit of hollow, fleshy armor. between shitty vaguebooking and bad poetry written for the cold, glib laughter of women that have asked me "why are you not romantic anymore?" I find nothing but time and time and time to stare up at the california stucco to wonder about why it's there. If you do that long enough, it'll wonder about you. 

"Why are you not romantic anymore?"
I don't have the hands left to be bitten. The pain of shapeless stretches of time in anticipation of doom, for sex, for a kiss, for a touch or place where it feels like I belong, that sting is not something new and exciting to me anymore.
It just hurts.
And now it's all I know how to do, and now I'm running from the only thing I thought I knew apart from asocial violence and hard labor.

That's all I knew.

The rest I've kind of been outgrowing, splitting thru those skins and trying , gasping in the cold to put them back on , building masks and capes and writing and relics I'm such a relic I'm such a fake it's no wonder every attempt at sincerity I've ever made had come up as a comedy
so many bites taken there's hardly any of what made me left 

and for all the costumes built from what has been sloughed off, thrown out, retrieved and stolen from the wastes in the graveyard shift of night

I am no warmer for it.