My soul is an 18-wheeler,
my words decals of women
with their legs in the air.
I drown sissy egg metaphors
in ketchup. My relationships
last as long as I can hold my hand
over a flame. They never burn.
My sunsets are various shades
of whiskey, sunrises undefined.
I always seem to miss them.
My nights are as black as leather
worn by that guy in Judas Priest—
before I knew he was gay.
I cry myself to sleep.
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