of a true hot mess,
please don't insult me, Abigail.
it is in these moments,
where heels hurt hard,
that I see my brother,
but I don't have a brother.
I am not old,
I am just gross,
talking through burbs.
Unable to imagine
getting any older,
but refusing to give up,
I guess I'll keep going.
I almost miss the heartbreak,
the youthful quandaries
that seemed to affect me more.
These days, either I don't
gamble or invest,
instead I court the days
to be forgettable.
I don't want to be
a desired, golden saint
like you, Abigail.
I am bad news bears,
a stabbing man,
so push me away,
it's okay.
Have fun,
don't want to die;
this is what work is.
I am a prick.
I am God's lonely man.
I am a bad writer
who can't stop.