Now I am waking up on the streets
like leftover Mardi Gras beads
from last night's party
and last week's parade
and you're just a gun with bullets
that taste like the lips of the boy
who lived across the street
from my home when I was five years old
when I was determined I had no home
when I found no rest in resting
my head in wet grass and whispering
to the stars and laughing at every
single trigger
click, click
clicking
in my muscles and in between my bones,
you're just a gun that is glued to my hand
and you're just a boy who stole
the needle in my compass
to sew yourself up
and now I am so lost
in a sea of static cling words
of desperation and regret pouring
from your gaped mouth

but I am so strong
but I thought I was stronger than this