The ghetto is covered in plastic hangers.
I see them laced in bushes and floating through the streets
when the harsh rains come like some pro-choice parade
with no supporters.
I’ve got this headache like cut glass
and this constant feeling of being out of place
in friends’ houses.
Suburbia and society have got some connotations
that I can’t seem to shake
and the glass just keeps digging deeper.
I hear you talking contests
of who can be more outrageous and I just want to hum at you,
take my clothes off and love you.
Don’t ask “isn’t that strange,”
give me something I can work with,
not something I can work within.
So make jokes
about the used abortions marching down the street
but don’t shy away when I pull you close
and kiss you alone in the rain.
I’ll strip your wet shirt from your body to expose the truth underneath
and this reverse mummification will push you
and I will catch whatever falls toward the ground.
Empty out your pockets in a waterfall,
kiss me awake, and demand something
of yourself that you think might be impossible.
We’ll move to the ghetto, get a house
and you’ll make me feel at home.