What Can’t Be Loved Loves Itself
seeker of the discarded
in search of like-bodied trinkets
to fill me in
‘til I’m trapped amidst
trashed treasures
like sleeping vagrants
soiled and hungry
in my eyes it would be sadder
if they weren’t such exploited
characters of themselves
perhaps I’m the same
prostituting myself
as the world would have me
a little soft for kinks
I’ve worn so many faces
in the hunt for my identity
recognizing myself
in someone’s forgotten relics
picking me up
each time again
finding something other
than what was seen before
wipe off the use
and there I’d stand
holding hands
with no one else
and I was happy