There’s a man who
Thinks he’s a boy
There out on
His patio
At night
It’s almost Three
I had to pee.  

He’s always there
There on that
Chair of his 
His Feet’s up on another
Chair
There
They’re identical
Laptop on his 
Legs
Watching something
Something bright
And light
With light 
The light of a tunnel
Tunneled black mirror
I think he has a dog
And 
Smoke Always
He’s always smoking
Eyes tired but
From watching
Something over &
Over
Until he needs
Another breath of muddled numbness
This month it’s whiskey
Last month was whiskey, too.
Sometimes up until
Five
I think he drowns to stay alive and
Rid the hurt
To hurt again
Where did it
First begin
The kick to the train
Down the 
Tracks sloping
Down something steep
A mountain upside Down,
its 
Scratch of horizon too steep to climb
You’d fly instead
But from your feet
Wings On his feet.
 
Another glass with Roommate’s ice
He coughs
The 
Scraped Grind
Of his chair
He should be writing
Should be sleeping
Should be
Working but there’s
Nothing
Nothing’s Working
And there’s never tears
But pours
And porn and poppers, too
He’s never fixed his blinds
There’s a glow
But on a carcass.  

Boy the things 
I’ve watched him jerk it too
Re-watch central over there
The struggled
Pain that gets him off, or going
Is it what he wants or 
How he feels the
Relatability?
Of the primal urge to lose control 
And (or) want it stripped by rope and bourbon
He only drinks until he cums
No, I’ve never heard him cry

Stop asking.

But how he sobs in his sternum,

Forever
Playing a Lead in his
Movie version of this
movie land,
Foothills of Hollywood
Looking for an ending but liking all of the attention
Looking like
He’s blaming others
But still stiff to think of blaming 
Himself,

the edgelord.  

By his door
The one I can 
See it
Looks like he’s getting out
Or going somewhere else.

Another patio
Or 
Tunnel
Maybe somewhere 
Where he needs or can knead
Maybe what 
He
needs
is

Somewhere new to live 
In and with himself
Maybe The light of Sun
Or presence 
Of men 
He will see,
Want him as something other than an ottoman,
Imprisoned trophy bitch to men who live as boys.  

Does he plan on changing or does 
He already feel it’s too late for that
Perhaps
If only one thing then
The change of believing that.