When I asked him,
my fingers still tasting like tobacco
As I bit them until they bled,
How bad are you?
He simply replied, “I don't know
My own phone number right now.”

He has bruises on his arms
in the shape of crescent moons and
Deep cuts on his face from where
The shaving cream didn't cover

He carries something you can't see
Like nails through his back up his spine
He sings Simon and Garfunkel as I
fall asleep
And it sounds like a “thank you” covered in
Red lipstick stains

He could taste the stale cigarette smoke
in this poem
I can see him in his zodiac leather jacket
Shaking and smoking and self-soothing
and slipping
Away from reality, tasting blood
I should not be with anyone who forgets
my name
This easily
I should not be pretending that
someday we'll
Stop talking about monsters

I can't decide if he's angry or pathetic or
Something entirely different
But I'm pretty sure at least half of him
is dying
He's laughing as if his velvet bones don't
Scream like God
And in this moment, he radiates a sense of
dizzying freedom
And he's beautiful