putting on my gloves tonight-- it doesn't feel fair otherwise.
you deserve a lot of things, but maybe knuckledents aren't one of them.

if i wanted you to sing me to sleep,
this would be a bedtime story instead of a eulogy
(if no one's sleeping than everyone's dead).
x's on eyes except when they're on hands;
nights spent with clubs as homes, as living rooms.
the wall's hard at your back but warm at your front--

the way shirts fit better on the floor.