a gun on my hip/with it

humming morrisey while imagining

that you ‘get to talking like a teen’

as i get dressed up like katy perry’s

teenage dream, in skin tight jeans

and a gun on my hip

i felt hip, with it

now in orange scrubs of 

this detention facility 

i just feel mean, 

lonely, like

fighting

limblessly for a justice

unseen; hallucinating 

on anti-psychotics 

till magical realism 

becomes something 

i believe

in this ‘chronicle of a death foretold’

so shoot me. 

thank you

maya ange-lou reed's

‘walk on the wild side’

is what i need

you!

i do.

there, i said it in advanced- now ask...

so it’s true, we’ve never yet met

but i know that you are the apple

of my eye and i’m a teacher's pet

me

like the puppy i am