he laughs with bitter remorse
& lies compulsively as if it's
the only thing he knows how

to do at the depths of mid-
night when it's just so hot
that he can't breathe &

his skin is gleaming with
sweat; he paints glitter
onto his eyelids & dresses

like a (fe)male prostitute
& drinks like a drunk as
he sucks his cigarette

to the filter & all he can
taste is bitter tobacco &
a bad habit just wasting

his life away; all he needs
is a reason to 'correct' his
behavior, a reason to breathe

without a nicotine fix but he
can't seem to find a cure for
his passion for disfunction

there's beauty in his destruc
-tion & something besides hydrogen
cyanide in his veins & he can't

help but reach for the chemically
imbalanced stars & wish for perfection
--or maybe just an internal combustion

&
&
&