Two-hundred and Fifty-three: Lie Alone

The moon’s moustache teases me:
all men are like my father.
Sweet puppy dog tails,
the love of fables,

but I am stubborn as a donkey,
and just as ridiculous.

Pop, pop, pop.
Eighteen year old fire-cracker
gone dusty with naivety.

Mental soundtrack on a loop.
Playing hula hoop with ego.
Losing my seventh id as if it was no big deal.

Breaking the seal;
seeking apple kisses.

I can’t lie anymore.
But still I lie alone.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

3 thoughts on “Two-hundred and Fifty-three: Lie Alone”

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