Red Polka Dots on White Paper

It occurs to me I never did have friends. Just strangers under my clothes. I've never had lovers. Only people I've fucked. No relationships. No partners. Just masquerades that lasted long enough I would forget their disguises.

But it's dangerous to look through the keyholes of those locked doors. Nothing but pity painting all four walls.

So arrives some frail messiah to unite the poet and the alcoholic. Turning two feeble liars into one strong truth.

When choice and reason fail to meet people happen.

Reality owns me.

I can never buy myself back.

Time does me no service. Always happening.