i live,
on nothing,
but my own vomit,
and a cardboard sign,
when i beg,
and plead,
for someone's food,
warmth,
out in the open,
with no home,
and i stay up,
thinking about you,
when i shouldn't
and wonder,
how you're doing,
and if you're okay,
or if you still love me,
and i hate myself,
because i still care.