What would you like? I'd like my money's worth.
                                       Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this—
        swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood
on the first four knuckles.
                                                    We pull our boots on with both hands
but we can't punch ourselves awake and all I can do
                   is stand on the curb and say Sorry
                                        about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.


I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.