the curse of having a temper.
I only write poems about me.
And you.
Fuck your broken heart.
Lost in the lucrative air
of running away,
this line burns
like a Volcano.
Duck the night.
I broken my pinky finger
on a glove box,
but no one cares,
except the lucrative air,
which is made great
by our breath.
At least, we still
contribute to some
atmosphere.