he's rough around the edges
but still soft spoken, tainted and bloody
with his torn paper outline, he leaves behind
sticky notes on his police outlines
sprawled on asphalt, hugging the grease
letting it seep into his tissue skin so he
absorbs the sins of the world
born flawed
the pretty little thing waits in the morning
to see his reflection in the mirror
through blind, blue eyes
and stares into the eyes of stars
unknowing that he gazes over their corpses
and lets out a puff of condensation into the
cold air of the evening
waiting for something
perhaps commiserating
