i have no ‘one that got away’ story

because i was always the one doing the leaving

 i’m screaming at inanimate objects

while looking for the cure to a disease i’m just imagining

i’d use all caps if i thought you’d really hear me

hobo beers and summer sunshine serenades

young and underpaid lovelies light out into the night

chasing these dreams of love’s first brush with death

caught up in the fiesta i slide seamlessly into a foreign tongue

hoping that someone notices as i metamorphosis

this mortality, this immorality, this fallacy

i think of a metaphor and it’s even too graphic for me

time to turn out the lights on this inner monologue

before it gives the secrets away