My words sound like a gun reloading—
knives made out of bean cans and
tobacco as a way out.
Call the police! Call the enforcements on me!
I am intimate with my petty theft of postcards in red light.
I’m victim, born in a helter-skelter listening to gospel choirs,
I’m not yellowed, nor pickled, nor punk, nor rock—
but I am believing myself.
The world is always coming to an end if I do not want me.
I do not know what coming home feels like but I imagine it is like this.
A wanting; a respiring; after a chase
to find the forgotten key under the doormat.
I am used to lapping up my pain like a tongue;
the disadvantage of being both the punisher and the punished.
but I am festive when I start believing my shoutings are not small.
Blow up some balloons and light up some spliffs.
Do not look for me because the party is over and the bars
on my door lead to no one.