To All the Pathetic Men Alone and Crying
Don’t use artificial illuminations
As an excuse (The bottle, pill, or masturbation work-just fine)
Expect to be haunted.
By the stains that are exposed
Under black light.
(Each dead protein
A ghost of sexual lust)
Finding her hair
On my pillow.
That tickled my tonsils.
As she looked down
Into my eyes.
With each thrust.
That I now wish her bald.
I am tempted
To use the sun
As an artificial illumination.
For what’s exposed in daylight:
Dancing with garbage.
In the taste of hand sanitizer.
Ticking with every 4pm minute.
On the cheeks of strange women,
That reminds me
Of damage done.
“I’m sorry! ”
I tell them.
They look at me
As if I was insane.
Especially that look
Reminds me of her.
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